


The Divine Doom

by AsunderWolf



Series: About Feathers and Claws [3]
Category: Divinity II, Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games), Divinity: Original Sin 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Beta Read, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Don’t copy to another site, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, F/F, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Longing, M/M, Married Couple dynamics, Memory, Novelization, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Second Chances, Sex, Sex Magic, Teasing, Video Game Mechanics, divinity lore, healing process, well this is Larian... as canon compliant as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 278,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsunderWolf/pseuds/AsunderWolf
Summary: Divinity has been shared with everyone in Rivellon, turning into the best tool to fight against the Voidwoken, but also strengthening those factions which were looking for power and control. The Lizards, and the rising of their power in addition to the Voidwoken, became the new danger that Rivellon had to face. On the other side, after so many encounters with the previously called Godwoken, the Black Ring finally seems to be defeated, and its activity diminished all over the region.[Development of Rivellon after the end of the game, focused mainly on Ifan and Sandor, canon compliant with slight variations, all of them related to this fic's prequel. This part of the fic covers the second part of the main plot ofAbout Feathers and Claws. From now on, I'll follow my own lore madness.][This story is the continuation of "About Feathers and Claws I – The Search for Divinity"]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings**
> 
>   * This fic follows the usual Timeline until the moment when DOS2 happens. All the games related to years after DOS2 are considered the "future of DOS2" but in another timeline. Therefore, this story will not follow _Divinity II Ego Draconis_, but will take elements from it. [It won't be spoilers and won't affect the reading if you have never played it. You can get a better idea of those elements by checking the [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .] 
> 
>   * Beast and Red Prince were left behind. [First part of _About Feathers and Claws_] 
> 
>   * I denied Ifan's romance scene in-game; instead, it was completely headcanoned. I can't conceive a dominant Ifan, when he is so much into letting his partner do whatever they like. [This is based on [ Ifan Headcanons. ](https://lairofsentinel.tumblr.com/post/177529566996) ] 
> 
>   * Because most of _Divinity _players are also _Dragon Age_ players, I won't go into crafting an Elven language for this fic and will keep using most of _Dragon Age_ Elven language vocabulary that we all know. 
> 
>   * _Dhaleram_ is a word of my own crafting, however. I made it up to mean something along the lines of "weak honour". 
> 
>   * There will be mentions of child abuse and torture, as well as descriptions of different kinds of violence — though nothing more than what is mentioned in the game itself. 
> 
>   * Lore reminder that years in _Divinity _are marked with these two abbreviations: 
> 
>     * AR: _Anno Rivellonis_, the ancient way of identifying specific years. 
> 
>     * AD: _Anno Deorum_, how we count years now, in honour of the Seven Gods. 
> 
>   * Remember that most characters and unusual "lore-like" concepts can be checked in the [ glossary of this series ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) . 
> 
>   * In game, classes are not relevant. However, they are in this fic. Classes and powers are related in this fic in the following way: 
> 
> _Wizards_ : Main control of Aerotheurge, Hydrosophist, Pyrokinetic schools. Only the most ancient ones can control Geomancer school as well. Fane and Arhu are able to, while Sandor is not. [I changed this in-game mechanics for some reasons explained in the fic.] 
> 
> _Wayfarer_ : Huntsman (poison) and Summoning schools, and rarely Geomancer. Ifan is a rare case. 
> 
> _Enchanters_ : Aerotheurge and Hydrosophist schools. Lohse falls here. 
> 
> _Battlemages_ : Aerotheurge and Warfare schools. Some rare cases can use minor water spells. Beast and Lysanthir are in this category. 
> 
> **Extra comments**
> 
> To better visualise the places where the events are taking place, you can check the [ Map of Rivellon ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285) , which can be found as the first work compounding the _About Feathers and Claws_ series. 
> 
> * I've also done a tumblr related to this fic in particular and DOS2 in general, that can be found [[here](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/)].
> 
> ** Important characters and their classes according to the fic **
> 
> Ifan: Wayfarer and crusader 
> 
> Sandor / Arhu / Fane / Zandalor : Wizard 
> 
> Malady: Demonic Sourcerer 
> 
> Lohse: Enchanter 
> 
> Sebille: Rogue 
> 
> Tarquin: Necromancer 
> 
> Lysanthir: Battlemage 
> 
> Gareth / DeSelby : Fighter 
> 
> Aywyn: Dark cleric 

> First, I want to thank to Dutch ([Unluckywords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unluckywords/pseuds/unluckywords)) for their beta-reading in the first part of this chapter. Second, I also want to thank [Hisshou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hisshou/pseuds/Hisshou), who will be beta reading this fic from now on.  
  
---  
  
The asterisks (*) refer to notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the[ second chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) of the Map of Rivellon and Series Notes.

* * *

* * *

> _I see. Beyond the Veil. Beyond my eyes. The crimson family shall rise from the ashes, shall claim their unlawful birthright twisted by Death, and shall give home to the Reaper. The world ought to fall apart for the war of races to start. The dark skies shall be filled with terror and fire, and the small sparks of hope shall be consumed by it, transforming the once rich lands into deserts where can only be harvested despair. _
> 
> — _Saheila [*]_

* * *

"I always hated these," Ifan said. From behind, Sandor was pushing back the metal layers that pinched him under the cape. The armour was too elaborate for his taste.

"Maybe we should change the design." Sandor moved to face him and crossed his arms. He looked Ifan up and down and smirked. The scruffy man had combed his hair and beard for once. A tight low ponytail gave him a touch of discipline that his personality rarely showed. Some locks of hair fell on his temples. The protocol armour of the new protectors, now called the Guardians, was black with golden intricate details. It was an exquisite design that Ifan liked — it reminded him of his crossbow's stock — so it would be a shame to change it. However, being accustomed to his tatty leather armour, this one was a torture to Ifan. Too much metal everywhere.

"I shouldn't have trusted Gareth on this matter. He wore this shit all his life."

"Well, Magister garb used to have more metal and useless ornaments," Gareth said, walking into the room. The elegance he moved with, despite being in the same heavy outfit, was admirable.

Ifan sighed in annoyance and moved his arms. A pauldron got stuck and after a metallic crack moved freely. He looked at Sandor and shook his head softly. "I envy you. You’re only wearing a fancier robe."

Sandor chuckled. "It is not as simple as it looks. It's heavy."

Ifan raised an eyebrow and tapped his metallic chest. "Try this one."

Gareth put his hands on each of the man's shoulders and spoke warmly, "I know you had no obligation after everything ended. I know we have different perspectives on what happened with… _that power_. It doesn't matter now. What's done is done. And I'm proud of you, proud and honoured to be part of something that will set things right."

Ifan smirked, patting Gareth's arm. Sandor just nodded as nobles used to. He was really good at faking nobility, especially in events like the one soon to come.

"Very well. I'll wait for you in the corridor. Don't make the Emperor wait." With those words Gareth left, closing the door behind him.

Silence fell for a moment until Ifan looked at Sandor with his usual kind eyes. Ahead, a _human life_ was awaiting them, with its own challenges, but far away from the aimless road that he had walked for so long. Life had been healed, repaired and, despite the time of sadness and guilt, was now full of vivid expectations. Ifan could not wait for _living._

* * *

The celebration was as grand as can be expected of the Emperor. A lavish feast with food from all four cardinal points, music played by the most recognizable bards in Rivellon, and a festive atmosphere that suggested the horrors of Lucian had finally ended. Ambassadors of each race assisted in the celebration — with the exception of the Lizards — in order to consolidate a new agreement to fight against the Voidwoken all over Rivellon. Now that everyone was a Sourcerer — and, more than that, a mini-divine — it was needed to have some political treaties of mutual respect and compromise with the new protectors of the world.

Without Lucian — and because of the Gods’ death — the Magister Order was dissolved by the Emperor's will and, in order to have a military force that could face the Voidwoken, the creation of a new one was required. This had been the opportunity that Gareth had awaited all his life. He quickly proposed the new position of Guardians, soldiers of any type and race trained to protect this world from the Void's threat, and the Emperor, as well as the more peaceful remnants of Magisters, did not oppose.

The Lizards, however, were in a complicated position. The House of War had disappeared when, days before the end of Divinity, a group of mysterious mercenaries killed its current leader. Rumours said that the attackers, after the assassination, shouted out the name of the great Red Prince, suggesting that the assault had been the last manifestation of a small group of zealots of the already dead prince. The event had been attributed to The House of Shadows, which had chosen a new leader by the time the Godwoken returned from the Nameless Isle. The House of Dreams was destroyed completely. These new movements that came with the upheaval of the geopolitical configuration of Rivellon, had brought all the other races' attention upon the Ancient Empire. It was said in far away lands that a new house was starting to rise, conquering new lands while taking advantage of the Voidwoken attacks. The new house, whichever it was, had proved to have no scruples in its ascending.

Due to these strange movements that followed after the destruction of Divinity, the Guardians — as a new institution — banned any Lizard participation in it, fearing for spies and infiltrators that could put the stability of a new, cleansed order at risk. This was taken as such an insult that during the first week of the creation of the Guardians all Lizards around Rivellon returned to the Ancient Empire. Everyone knew that losing the Lizards’ favour weakened their troops against the Voidwoken, but they could not risk to be allies with a culture of supremacy and slavery that was taking advantage of the most unfortunate zones of Rivellon to expand their Empire.

The Emperor gave to the Guardians the vast extension of lands of Stormdale, which needed to be cleaned of the vandals and wild creatures that had been dwelling there for decades. A Guardian fortress was planned to be built in its coast; a place where the highest authorities of the institution would live and control the rest of the bases around Rivellon. This fortress was not meant to be just a fortification against Voidwoken. It was going to be a place where one could find good hard-training, troops to recruit, political and economical help, and the breadth of knowledge in Rivellon. It was going to be managed mainly by General Gareth, the High Guardian among them.

Every region of Rivellon would have a Guardian Commander that would report routinely to the main fortress. Even repented outlaws and Magisters were allowed to join the new force. The Paladins protested about the lax conditions needed to become a Guardian. Many of them considered this new organization to be a second Magister disaster waiting to happen, and so they kept their own institution intact, claiming to be completely independent of the Guardians. Gareth did not care.

With this new configuration, all Rivellon was organized by Guardians. Guardian Commander Yarrow (*) took control of the previous Fort Joy, preventing the isle from turning into a laboratory for the remnants of the Black Ring. Papa Thrash (*), in honour of the current anarchist nation of dwarves joining the fight against the Voidwoken, commanded Driftwood. All of the woods around it were given to the Elves, to rebuild their nation, or at least half of it, considering that now there were two factions of them. Saheila, leader of the Elves who supported the creation of a new nation free of the Mother Tree and her mind control, became an active collaborator of the Guardians. Her subordinates who were more willing to interact with humans were sent to different Guardian posts so Saheila would have eyes and ears in every city.

Gareth could not help but offer Arx to Ifan, subtly inviting him to be part of this new institution, putting aside their personal differences. Ifan was surprised and honoured. Despite the extensive fame of Silver Claw in Rivellon, nobody in Arx could link that infamous reputation to his face. The few people who knew him in the past could only associate him with an efficient and loyal Order commander. So, giving the Guardian command of Arx to him was not only fitting, but also strategic. Nobody outside of Arx would attack the infamous Silver Claw, while most people inside it would feel the safety of his commanding skills of the past. Ifan's experience would make him a fine commander again, uninterested in power and wise enough to avoid past mistakes. However, it was not easy to convince him. Ifan only accepted after a long conversation with Gareth and the active intervention of Sandor in it.

In order to face this challenging task, Ifan named Sandor his right hand, making him part of the Guardians and, therefore, of the hierarchy of Arx. Master of Knowledge, also called Mestre, was a title given to those scholar Guardians who were going to contribute to the fight with armoury and weaponry knowledge, healing, and strategy support. They would usually be far away from battles, but were no less important because of it.

The complexity of the Guardian institution was still in process of being built, but despite the fact that it was not finished yet the celebration in the palace formalised its role and gave royal legitimacy in front of all Rivellon. If the Emperor had blessed this new order, it was likely to be respected by the people.

The Seekers were absorbed into the Guardians, finding no resistance. Gareth's spotless reputation made it easier. The Seekers had trusted him for years, through thick and thin, and were eager to continue their work with him in the new institution. The Paladins, on the other hand, too stubborn to be part of this new order, preferred to stay away from the organization and only changed their oath. Now, the Paladins vowed loyalty to the Emperor instead of Lucian. They did not want the essence of the ancient order to be lost with Lucian’s death. Replacing the old Divine with a Royal figure did not seem to complicate things within the order.

The Emperor finally appeared on the highest level of the palace room. He walked down the stairs, his long cape dragging down the steps behind him. Ifan yawned, and a sudden elbow cut his gesture off. Sandor was frowning at him, giving him a rare black look. Ifan rolled his eyes and tilted his head, looking at the boring and artificial movement of the Emperor. He could not restrain another yawn.

By his side, Sandor was forcing _that_ annoying attitude. His shoulders straight, his chin a bit lifted, a cold look that imitated a level of superiority. A fake degree of nobility that seemed too easy for Sandor to pose. Although Ifan knew it was all a performance, he could not avoid feeling goosebumps of repulsion every time he observed him. Sandor looked like those typical scholarly jerks. The pretence was good enough to convince even the most whimsical nobles.

Gareth knelt before the Emperor and allowed His Highness's sword to touch his shoulders. He was granted, by the Emperor of Rivellon, the rank of High Guardian, General of the Guardians and main head of a new order that was going to protect the kingdom from the Voidwoken.

Humbly, Gareth offered to the Emperor a manuscript with the list of all Guardians in the main cities of Rivellon, the basic structure that the organization would take from then on out. In a short time, Gareth had travelled all throughout Rivellon to convince the best to join him. They were going to be chosen from fighters and scholars, and accompanied by their right hand, a companion who could help the commander in the most intense times against the Voidwoken. The structure was meant to find balance in the chaos that the destruction of Divinity had left.

The Emperor called an imperial reader, and Gareth's document was read aloud.Now Ifan was yawning more often than not.

_To show there _ _are_ _ no ill feelings from the past, Fort Joy will be led by Guardian Yarrow, a former Magister _ _who has _ _sworn her allegiance to the Emperor..._

"Stop yawning," Sandor whispered close to Ifan.

Ifan rubbed his eyes. "Braccus Rex didn't kill me, this will do it."

Sandor chuckled, "Pretend to pay attention, at least."

Ifan grunted softly.

_...displaying our good faith in the new free Dwarven nation, Driftwood will be led by the Guardian Commander Thrash, who offered..._

"Look at that," Ifan scoffed, "That sweetheart got a rank inside the Guardians... what the hell was Gareth thinking? Thrash is a thug, a sweet one but a thug in the end." Suspicious about the sudden silence, Ifan looked at Sandor. The wizard was smiling in disbelief, an eyebrow raised, wondering how Ifan could miss the irony of such a comment. "Shut up," Ifan whispered, poking his finger at Sandor's waist.

"I didn't say a thing..." Sandor answered, slapping Ifan's hand softly.

_The forgotten isle of Bloodmoon _ _must _ _be recovered. For that, the High Guardian, General Gareth, has assigned a scholar as Main Guardian of the _ _isle_ _, the healer Gregorious Swann (*) will..._

Sandor made a sound of surprise in his throat that only Ifan could hear. "Yeah, Gareth told me. He considered it was wiser to put a scholar in charge of the isle, and his right hand is a warrior."

"Who is that?" Sandor said.

"Do you remember the girl you healed when we met him?"

Sandor blinked, smiling. "Oh, Natalie Bromhead (*) did well then."

_We cannot forget the Dragon's Spine..._

"What?" Sandor whispered surprised, looking at Ifan, "Gareth lost his mind!"

Ifan shook his head. "Kind of. But he said it was important to keep them visible."

"People will panic..."

"Nobody is saying anything about their... _nature. _Gareth ordered us to kept repeating that only wizards live there. Nobody will question that. We all know wizards are weird," Ifan said, smirking. Sneakily, he poked Sandor's waist again. Sandor hit his ribs softly. There was no sense in forcefully hitting a thick armour.

"Fane will be there?" Sandor continued murmuring.

"When he is not travelling. Otherwise, Gratiana will be in charge of that region. She was grateful. I would not trust anyone else. A soul wanting to right their wrongs is the best way to be sure they will do good."

Sandor hummed.

_The elven Kingdom has suffered much__. F__or that, in __an __honest display of our faith in this new alliance, we are making them collaborators of this Order, allowing the independent faction to join us in this fight against the Voidwoken. Saheila, the _—

"Wow." Sandor blinked. He could not believe what he was listening to.

"I convinced Gareth to do it. It was tough..."

"I hope you didn't destroy the place you were arguing in."

Ifan chuckled, but he did not comment on it. "We need the Elves. We need to join the races..."

Sandor hummed again and looked down. He struggled to believe Ifan’s statement. Lizards had been banned from Rivellon with the last movements of the Ancient Empire. Nothing good would come of that. "The reader said the independent faction... what's that?"

"Elves are fragmented. Some want to recover the Mother Tree. Saheila is against it, so they acquired this new status. The Independent Elves. Fancy name, uh?"

"But they are part of the Guardians?"

"Kind of. They are more like a scholarly resource. However, she sent a group of fighters who want to be part of the Guardian in Arx. The commander she sent in her place, Lysanthir (*), is... well..." Ifan scratched his the back of his neck.

Sandor frowned, his eyes on Ifan as he could see the slight blush in his cheeks. He chuckled. "Ah. I must worry. Uh?"

"You know you don't need to." They smiled at each other.

"Maybe I have to research some spell to turn my skin into bark."

Ifan turned even redder and cleared his throat.

_...The Paladins have always shown their commitment to the well-being of Rivellon... _

Ifan rolled his eyes.

_...for that, Paladins will remain as a _ _side_ _ order to the Guardians, led by an old veteran of the darkest times: Paladin Hardwin (*)._

Heaving a deep sigh, Ifan looked at the ground, serious.

_Arx, _ _a city which must find new purpose_ _, will be led by the ex-commander of the Order, The Guardian commander Ben-Mezd, and his right hand, the Mestre Das Balurik._

They looked at each other fondly, while the last sentences of the speech finished. This ridiculous event was finally at its end.

After the announcement at the Palace, everyone left for their assigned cities. For Ifan, The first step to take in Arx was to talk with Sanguinia Tell (*). He had to gain her favour; there was no way to maintain peace in the city without her collaboration. His experience in the matter told him that every aim he had for the city would fail before it even began without her help. He stopped in front of Sanguinia's enormous mansion and sighed.

"Do you want me to go with you?" Sandor said, some steps away from Ifan.

"I wish, but no. I'll get a better deal without you. You know," Ifan twitched his mouth, "she hates wizards. When she finds out that you’re my right hand... Ugh. That'll be nasty." He sighed again.

Sandor smiled and with a light pat on Ifan's shoulder, they parted ways. He needed to visit Arhu. With the new changes incorporated by the Guardian structure, the city was going to suffer some reformations as well, and he had the best suggestion to make.

[ ](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/188746762079/lairofsentinel-divinity-original-sin-2-about)

* * *

Filling his lungs with the city air, which seemed different from the last time they visited it when Divinity was still at stake, Sandor walked through the streets calmly. On the bridge, he could distinguish a crowd at the entrance of the Cathedral where Arhu, surrounded by hundreds of faithful people, spoke aloud with his silky voice.

"New times are ahead, my dear people. We need to face it together. The Voidwoken are still a threat and the Gods will not help us anymore, for they have disappeared—"

A man in the group shouted out, "The Gods are dead. Same as Lucian. Thanks to your incompetence!"

A sudden boo spread across the crowd. Arhu crossed his arms, remaining silent to let the mass relieve their stress until they turned quiet once more. "Are you done?"

"You are not denying it," a woman said.

"It's not my fault. Lucian died decades ago, and my humble person, as Guardian of his tomb, has protected everything that could be protected. If you want to reproach someone, look to Lord Kremm. He betrayed our trust."

The crowd remained quiet.

"So, the gods are dead?" a woman's voice, trembling, broke the silence. "We are alone, with this?" She looked at her hands; the small green cracks covering her skin glowed. "These are doomed times."

"I know this may be frightening, but believe me when I say we are going to help you all. The cathedral will be open to offer you knowledge. Let us teach you. We have been manipulating Source for years..."

"Lady Tell told us that all this was due to the Wizard illness," a man shouted.

Sighing audibly, Arhu rolled his eyes, "Please, don't trust her words on matters she can't even fathom."

"Why did the gods die? Why were we left behind? Why have we got Source now?"

One after the other, questions arose in the mass. Arhu tried his best to answer, to bring calm to those troubled souls who had always lived simple lives. Facing the new challenges which these times forced onto them was too much to bear.

Among the multitude, Arhu spotted Sandor who was covering his head with his robe's hood. The former protector of Lucian's tomb made a movement in the air, inviting him to go into the cathedral while he dealt with the last remnants of the crowd.

Subtly, Sandor sneaked into the enormous building, now completely empty. No scholars or priests had inhabited it since the Seal of Lucian's tomb had been broken. The news that Lucian's remains were profaned and his powers extinguished, as well as the rumours that circulated after, led to a crisis of faith in all of Rivellon. Some people solved it by denying the reality, others, feeling betrayed, left the city swearing revenge. The chaos in the city was just a small problem in comparison with the Voidwoken attacks, but it was another threat to take into account.

"For the gods and the demons of this and all worlds..." Arhu said as he walked past the huge door of the cathedral entrance. The room was barely illuminated by candles. Several portraits of the old Seven hung on the walls, without offerings or flowers to worship them.

Sandor turned on his heels and removed his hood. "That amount of people at the entrance is normal nowadays?"

"Mostly. Living in a world without gods brings despair to common folks. Ironic, right?" He passed beside Sandor and took a pitcher with wine. He poured two cups and gave one to Sandor. "When they should be feeling more free than ever... instead they are in despair. I guess people desire their masters."

Sandor looked down and sipped the wine. Sweet wine, his favourite. "The threat of death is more tangible now."

Arhu shrugged, "When was it not? Ah, humans; such a fragile creation."

"Would it not be better to let them believe that nothing has changed?"

Arhu tilted his head and invited Sandor to keep walking to his chambers with a motion of his hand. Their steps continued to echo around them. "But it did. Now we are all small gods." Both reached Arhu's desk and seated themselves in comfortable chairs. "How do you convince yourself that you are less than your gods when you have more power than them?"

"Can they compare?"

"A farmer can now summon a storm to water their fields. A worried mother can heal their kids' scratched knees with a snap of her fingers. Children can break all of the windows in the city by simply stomping on the ground or throwing pebbles. They stopped praying the moment they knew they had power. Tell me, do you still pray?"

"No."

"When did you stop?"

Looking down for a second, Sandor did not answer. It was too personal. "So, sharing the power was not a wise choice?"

Arhu chuckled after a long sip. "Who knows. The easier choice was to leave everything in the way it was. A new divine would have arisen. The cycle would have started once again. Now, it's broken. What's coming, whether it's good or bad is hard to say." Arhu sighed and looked through the window. "I've lived so many thousands of years, my friend. After a while, everything starts to repeat. I've seen almost everything. Every ending of every story. Every cycle. Every human personality. Every tiny part of anything. I've gotten bored of existence. But now, it's a strange time. Voidwoken and this new change..." He moved the fingers of his free hand elegantly and a flame of Source flickered in his palm. "This is something I've never seen. To me, it's more than welcome. Now, for the rest of the world... well, we'll see."

Sandor sighed. It was not the answer he wanted to hear. But there was nothing to do now. _What__’s done__ is done_. He sipped. "You called me. I'm here."

"Yes. I wanted to inform you, as part of the Guardians and mainly as part of Arx, that you will have new duties. Related to me." Sandor raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry, nothing that you would not like." Arhu smiled. "The cathedral as a place for gods is useless now. What would you suggest I do with it?"

Sandor's eyes shone. His words flowed immediately; it seemed that this was not the first time he had thought of it. "Arx has no academy. People are afraid of their own powers, so I think we need one. One in which everyone can come and learn to use their Source. We can also spot the ones that could be useful for the Guardians, and recruit them." Arhu nodded in approval. "But the Voidwoken fights will get tougher over time. We will also need a lot of scholars developing new weapons against them, and healers. We'll need a lot of them. And a place to offer healing. I... I think a clinic is mandatory."

Arhu raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Strange thinking process."

Sandor let out a low hiss and continued. "Strange you say? It's less than average. You have spent too much time with warriors, Lord."

Arhu laughed softly, remaining silent for a short while as he looked through the windows. "Maybe."

"They are always more willing to avenge than to heal what they protect."

"It's the essence of war, after all. Defence through destruction. Stupid indeed." Arhu sighed, "So, half of the cathedral will be an academy, and the other half a clinic?"

"I didn't mean that," Sandor said. "We can't have a clinic beside a building with a continuous stream of people. If we have some sort of outbreak, or a sudden massive amount of patients, we should be able to close the surrounding buildings to ensure control of the disease. We need a place far away from the city, a bit isolated. The cathedral is a good place for that, because it faces the city on one side and the sea on the other. But it would be a waste to use its enormous library rooms as mere rooms for patients. We can't remove all of the cathedral's cultural value to make it a healing centre."

Arhu smirked. "What are you suggesting? Because, clearly, you want both."

Sandor chuckled and tucked the longest side of his fringe behind his ear. “Tell me, what's the fate of the Lizard consulate?”

Arhu laughed loudly. "You are a sneaky one, my friend. But sadly that building — which is by now only ashes — is out of my power. I can't decide over that lot."

"Whom should I speak to?"

Arhu savoured his wine with some deliberation, "To our charming friend, Sanguinia Tell."

A silence filled the room as Sandor took a sip of his own. This was discouraging. "So... no possibility at all," he said sadly.

"Not entirely. She may listen to you. See if you can convince her to give us that destroyed building. She is not fond of wizards, that's true, but she cares for the city. If you give her strong arguments... Who knows? Maybe you can win over her brittle, withered heart. After all, chances are slightly higher when it comes to a clinic. You should forget about it if you were to ask her about an academy — which is, in her own words, _a nest for rotten, ill wizards_ — but a clinic... I think you’ve got a shot."

"Don't tell me you already asked her about an academy once?"

"Of course I did. Who in their right mind would have a powerful city without an academy? Knowledge is something she wants yet she is scared of." At Arhu’s words, Sandor, curious, tilted his head. "Everyone knows that she has a broad network of spies in the city and outside. To know is to have control. She knows that. Yet, she was completely opposed to my suggestion several decades ago. Something about this stupid wizard illness of hers."

"Oh, I know. I met her some time ago and she said something similar. Where did she get such a ridiculous idea from?"

"Not sure. But according to her descriptions — yes, I indeed listened to her a long time ago; miserable experience I must say — what she calls the wizard illness is the condition of the silent monks. We wizards, according to her, absorb people's energy and Source to become more powerful."

Wrinkling his nose and frowning, Sandor's face was a mixture of laugher and disbelief. "I wish it could work that way. Well, I’ll see what I can do to convince her. But, certainly, we need both, an academy and a clinic."

"If you manage to get them both, be sure to be part of them. I can't face all those changes alone. And this academy and clinic will be part of your Guardian's duty."

Sandor's eyes fell on the ground, his lips twisted a bit "No pressure, eh?"

He drank the rest of the wine quickly, put the cup on the desk, and sighed. He had never had an important position in the Academy of Balurik. He barely had a notion of what that position would entail. This was a big change in his life. Another in a long list of changes that he had experienced since the moment the Magisters collared him.

_Change_.

He had walked that path before and he was not going to stop now. With fear gripping his heart, he accepted this new responsibility. That was part of the new challenges they had to face in a world full of Voidwoken and Source. Besides, from his point of view, adapting to this new world demanded knowledge of healing more than ever — not only to heal soldiers from battle wounds, or common people who injured themselves due to incorrect use of their newly acquired powers, but also to research Source and any related illnesses that may happen.

This new world was in need of knowledge, and Sandor was determined to reduce the enormous gap between scholars and the rest of the community, to let them understand their important role in it. Scholars had to be seen as more than useless people.

As Sandor left the cathedral after another cup of wine, the first change he noted when he put a foot outside was the dark sky above him. Time was flitting. He had thought there would be enough time to visit Sanguinia Tell but, considering the delicate approach he had to take, he could not rush to her mansion. In fact, it was wiser to talk with Ifan first, providing the man had seen her that day. Maybe some extra information about her current mood could help him decide his future movements.

He walked down the Arx streets to his humble home. It was located at a dead end beside the Barracks, facing the sea. Ifan had managed to get him a small, old house that was adjoined to the back of the Barracks. It was a perfect place for the Mestre of Knowledge to live. As a public figure who was not exactly a warrior but did contribute to the war against the Voidwoken, it was natural not to force him to live inside the Barracks with all the other recruits, but still close enough to have him handy for any unexpected situations.

Once the house was made suitable to live in, Sandor became fond of it easily. It had a small entrance, a broad living room with an extensive library and a desk to study at, a small kitchen, and his own room. Upon inspection, Sandor had uncovered a hatch which, following a long dark corridor, led to Lord Kemm's former room in the Barracks. The discovery had brought some questions. Why would Lord Kemm have built this? If they took into account what they had found in his Vault, that small house probably was related to the GodKing somehow. However, and despite Sandor's efforts, he could not find any suspicious magical alteration to the place. It was clean of any dark magic.

After Sandor had moved into this new house, Ifan took Lord Kemm's room in the Barracks as his own. Sandor enhanced the magical protection of the corridor and the corresponding hatches in each room, setting sophisticated traps along it. The barriers crossing the corridor needed Ifan's or Sandor's natural Source to be deactivated. Only they could pass through them without harm. In this way, they could share their beds more often, to keep some of the domestic familiarity which they were not allowed to have in the open.

He had also checked the windows, placing permanent magical illusions of night on them, to prevent curious eyes peeping into his house. Although they did allow the sun and the sound of birds to enter, he always valued his privacy even more.

  
After a long evening of work, he took a hot bath and prepared his dinner. He placed two dishes and glasses on the big table in the living room, and waited for his guest to come.

To kill time, he sat at his desk and took a book — _Studies on Source_ by Das Vapour, one of several books he had recovered from Isabeil's laboratory a while ago. Now that Source had spread to everyone, it took different shapes depending on each individual. To know every single detail of the Source’s nature was important, if he wanted to prepare himself for the challenges they would face in the long term. And also, deep inside his soul, he wanted to understand his own Source. Das Vapour must have found something within his Source that made him so eager to measure it for several years — yet, one day, he simply gave up on it. Maybe something odd in the nature of his Source had made him stop, and Sandor was determined to find it out. Or at least as long as he was killing time.

* * *

Night fell and, with it, the shields of his last recruits. With a warm soft laugh, Ifan patted the last two trainees on the back and made a light joke about their defences. Then, he told them to call it a night for now. In a corner of the training field, a tall elf observed the lesson with a smirk on his face. When Ifan was alone, he approached him, helping him put the weapons and shields in their racks and arrange the dummies that were half destroyed by now.

"It's such a refreshing sight to see these times." The elf's voice was soft and calm. A pinch of amusement was always present in it. He was looking down at Ifan with a kind smile, while Ifan wiped the sweat from his temples, still gathering the shields on the ground.

His lips twitched for a second. "Ah, never got tired of stalking me, Lysanthir?"

Lysanthir’s smile broadened. "You wound me. I was not stalking you, but observing you while I was appreciating the present. I am, after all, Saheila's eyes. I need to know how our allies... fight."

Ifan shook his head and chuckled. "You certainly have lived among humans for too long."

"Why?"

"Your lame excuses. A damned human compulsion."

Both walked with their arms holding several shields and placed them in the rack under cover of the nocturnal dew. Lysanthir sat on a long bench and took two bottles of water that he had prepared before training with the recruits. He handed one to Ifan, who accepted it. After a long swig, a loud sound of refresh came, as if Ifan had been revived by the water.

Lysanthir, tired as well, let his long hair down, which until that moment had been tied in a high ponytail. His hair was a rare tone of ash with an earthy sheen. The colour made Ifan remember dry soil waiting desperately for the rain to revive it, to feel alive, to let the sprout grow — a colour of tiredness and stillness. Twisting his head, Lysanthir made his neck crack several times as his hair fell plain on his shoulders and chest. Then, he grinned and looked straight into Ifan's eyes which had observed him all along.

"I like humans. You don’t?"

Ifan closed his eyes for a fraction of second and took a moment. He shrugged. "Well, I don’t have much choice. I'm one of them..." He sat beside Lysanthir and rested his back against the wall. He looked at the dark sky. Some stars were appearing in the East.

"Why did you leave the forest, then?"

"Ah. Who knows. I was too young. Thought the Divine Order could change anything. That I could be part of that change. Too naïve."

"Not to be pessimist, but... what's the difference now?"

Ifan turned to look at Lysanthir. His grey eyes were on him, silently observing while waiting for an answer. A shadow of a smile curved his lips in that permanent gesture of amusement — and a little wickedness. It was as if to him everything were material for jest. "Well, to begin with, no Lucian."

Another laugh. "As if that could matter."

"You think it's the same a Lucian than..."

"Than Sigrun? Or a Lizard King? Even a Scion? It's the same. We just... follow orders."

Ifan frowned. "Well, no. That's another thing I want to change. I want Guardians to be autonomous. We can't expect to save anyone if we need a commander's order to move our asses."

"Uh. Says the commander."

Ifan shook his head. The elf was a nightmare, indeed. But he liked him. Lysanthir had exactly what he wanted to infuse into every Guardian. "I wonder what the hell you are doing here. You are a scholar to the bone. That smart-ass smirk included."

Lysanthir’s smile became more sarcastic. "You hurt me. But I will tell you a secret... I grew bored of reading."

Now, Ifan scoffed. "I have a good eye, then. What happened? Why give up being a smarty-pants to become a warrior?"

"I was no good with books. Or they simply bored me after a while. When you live too long... that happens too often. With almost _all_ things in life," he said in a grave tone, his eyes dark for a brief moment.

Ifan frowned, drinking a bit of water. He observed Lysanthir's face in detail. It was smooth, without a trace of the passage of time present on his bark skin. He was not older than Nueleth, but Ifan could not stop perceiving something ancient in him. "You don't look old."

"Ah, thank you. I've spent every night moistening my skin." He took Ifan's scarred hand and placed it on his cheek.

Smiling, Ifan rolled his eyes and removed his hand immediately. "Be serious. How old are you?"

"I am several times your own age."

"Well, most elves are."

"You humans have such weird ages. I remember dating a girl who was only fifty years old."

Ifan’s eyebrows shot up, "Girl you say..."

"Well, I felt horrible about it. At that age, _we_ are still children.”

They chuckled for a moment and then remained silent, drinking water.

"I think that’s all for today." Ifan gave him the bottle and nodded in thanks. He stood up from the bench and stretched his arms over his head, speaking with effort, "I’m calling it a night."

"Without dinner?" Lysanthir said.

"You know me. I always have some snacks here and there." Ifan pointed inside his shirt pockets for emphasis.

Full of mistrust and with a twitched smile on his face, Lysanthir followed Ifan's figure along the corridor with his eyes, until he disappeared through the main door. Then, he observed the piece of sky visible from the bench. The dull darkness of evening had turned into proper night and the light of the Barrack's kitchen were alight. A firefly, flying from afar, headed towards him and rested on his knee. Lysanthir smiled genuinely to himself.

Ifan reached the main corridor of the rooms. The former Paladin's Barracks was now an extension of the Guardian's buildings for recruits to live and train. In the lowest levels was his chamber, which had belonged to Lord Kemm before. Tired, he took a bath. Cautious enough to lock the door and cast an unlocking spell on it, Ifan approached his small library and moved several books — a special order was needed. The sound of clicks finished with the slow slide of the shelf, giving him access to a long corridor. All those tricks that Magisters had spread along the Barracks were now useful, for less bloody purposes.

Ifan crossed the passage in darkness, knowing all the traps set there by heart. A glowing wall met him after several meters. It was the last security barrier, a wall that would only allow passage to two particular Source owners. He was one of them. He stepped across it and his Source, mingling with the spell, produced a soft wave which spread all over its glowing surface. The corridor ended in another room on the other side of a mirror. He touched it; the mirror moved aside like a door and allowed him to step in. He saw the empty room and smiled, smelling a delicious meal in the air.

Lost in his text, Sandor only perceived Ifan's presence when his strong arms surrounded his chest, and a thick beard tickled his neck. He smiled.

"I always tell you not to have your back to any place where someone may enter," Ifan whispered in his ear, leaving a peck in his neck.

"It's my home, nobody dangerous will enter."

"Still. Never let your guard down." Ifan kissed Sandor's head and looked at the page he was reading — strange symbols of an old language that he could identify but not understand. "What the hell..." Ifan frowned. In fact, he could identify the words _Source_ and P_ower_ dotted across the text.

"What?"

"You can... can you read that?"

Blinking, Sandor looked at the page. "Yes... I'm a bit rusty, but... yes."

Ifan drew back a little and looked at him, worry twisting his face as he tried to understand how someone outside the sect could understand it.

"What? What's wrong?" Sandor asked.

"That's... that's the language of the Black Ring."

Sandor observed the page and blinked, tilting his head. "Oh? Really? Mn, my tutor taught it to me as an ancient tribal language. They had many scholars of Source_._ They have really interesting results in their research."

Ifan sighed, not sure how to feel about those words. "Be careful with that..."

"I know, don't worry." Sandor gently slapped Ifan’s cheek over his own shoulder, "By the way, isn’t it a bit late?"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. Sanguinia Tell wasted all my time today."

"Got what you wanted?"

Ifan released the hug, but did not leave Sandor's side. "She made me wait for several hours and then never showed up. Something about a merchant's meetings. I will try to talk to her tomorrow."

"Oh, maybe we can plan something for that."

Ifan frowned, but Sandor did not explain. Instead, he took his arm and pushed him softly toward the big table where their food had been waiting for a long time, kept warm by a spell. While eating, they shared what had happened during the day. In more detail, Ifan explained the amount of bureaucracy needed to arrange a meeting with Sanguinia Tell. After the annoyances had been completely vented, he focused on his recruits, telling Sandor with a broad smile how much pride and hope he had for them.

He was convinced that this new kind of fighter, the Guardians, trained in a unique form, would turn into the best military institution that could defend Rivellon. So carried away by his emotions, Ifan dared to even express the silly idea that had been flitting around his mind for a time: writing a manual for standardizing his combat style in every Guardian post around the world. He wanted to be sure that Guardians would not repeat the Magister's mistakes and respect a set of basic rules: defend the people, survive to fight another battle, and follow orders with the head, never with the heart. A way to tell everyone that their own morals and critical thinking were also part of their military life. He was determined to remove the idea of following orders blindly.

Sandor was not so convinced of these new changes, but he never spoke his opinion aloud. After all, he was not part of the military; he never was, and never would be. His opinion was going to be not only ignorant on the topic, but also disrespectful. He preferred to trust Ifan on that matter.

With the end of the dinner and the tiredness wearing down their bodies, they went to bed early, enjoying one more night of the dear daily life they were building in that house.

[ ](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/187904967707/the-divine-doom)

* * *

They had prepared the plan, taking into account all the slight variations of possibilities. It had to be a success. Ifan knocked on the door, and the usual butler opened it. He looked at Ifan with squinted eyes, as if he were making an effort to remember him even though it had just been a day since they met.

"Yes?" the butler said, holding the door open.

"Uh. Good day. I've come here. _Again._ I need to talk to Lady Tell."

"Ah. Of course. Step inside, please."

Ifan did so. As usual, he found the old woman seated in front of the hearth in the enormous living room of her mansion, drinking tea. She looked at him with a warm smile.

"My dear commander, I'm deeply sorry for having been unable to meet you yesterday, but believe me. It was a good thing."

"For your finances?"

"For Arx itself. And for _you_."

Ifan raised his eyebrows. "For me?"

"I know why you came here yesterday. And you don't have to ask me either. I will support the Guardians as long as you are commanding them here in Arx. Same as I did when you were serving the Divine Order, and kept the city in check. Of course, I will ask you to give me some reports periodically, explaining how my money was used. Nothing more than the normal procedures to avoid any level of corruption."

Ifan smiled. "Well, I don't think many would take advantage of this situation. The Guardians protect everyone from the Voidwoken."

"It's not you that I mistrust, my dear commander. It is those who surround you."

Ifan frowned a bit. There it was. The thorn in the sweet rose. He was ready to respond when another knock on the door dragged their attention to the butler. The man had already reached the entrance and, in hushed whispers, kept talking to the person on the other side of the door. Sanguinia started to lose her patience and with a commanding voice she asked who was there.

"A man called... The Mestre," he said.

She looked at Ifan with squinted eyes. "Fancy title you gave him."

"It was not me. It was the Emperor of Rivellon. This is how the Guardians structure—"

She waved her hand, as if she were shooing a fly. "I know. I know. A scholar and a fighter in each big city." She looked at the butler, "Allow him in. Let's see what he wants."

Sandor walked softly into the room. He stood straight, with his shoulders broad and his chin raised slightly upwards. His hands rested one on top of the other, palm against palm, at stomach height. Once more, Ifan cocked an eyebrow. Sandor was doing _that_ again, looking like one of those noble assholes. What a performance.

"Good day, Lady Tell," he said, approaching the table where Ifan and the old lady were sitting.

"No, no. You stay there," Sanguinia said immediately.

Sandor's blood boiled, but he did not let his emotions shine through his performance. With a short bow, he remained standing close to the door. Ifan looked at the woman, a bit uncomfortable with this treatment.

"Courtesy is not something that all mighty spirits should offer?" Ifan said to her, smirking.

She looked at him, her forehead creased. Although she displayed some annoyance, she did not say anything. Her favourite commander in all of Rivellon had always been straightforward to everyone. It was good to see some things never changed. Finding herself in such discourtesy, she called her butler and muttered some instructions to him. Soon, the butler placed two old — and quite dirty — wooden boxes near the door, balancing an old china cup of tea precariously on the table.

"There you have my forgotten courtesy."

Sandor looked at the box on which he had to take a seat. It was dirty on purpose. Sitting on it would ruin his robe and would display a long wet stain on his rear for the remainder of the day. Rejecting this “courtesy” to avoid the humiliation would only give Sanguinia more excuses to mistreat him. He needed a smart response.

Ifan frowned at the old woman. He found her behaviour reprehensible. "Is this necessary? Why..."

"It's fine." Sandor said, interrupting Ifan's words before he would destroy his good relationship with her. At least one of them should keep her favour.

Sandor maintained his noble demeanour and cast a massive amount of Source in front of Sanguinia. Out of nowhere, water appeared in the air, floating around him and around the boxes, cleaning everything. The woman paled at the display of Source magic which she hated so much. Then, as if such a procedure were natural and routine, Sandor sat on the box and drank his tea. "Excellent blend," he said, smiling at her.

Ifan had to restrain his laugh. That had been such a low punch for Sanguinia. Though, he now worried about her retaliation. You did not offend Sanguinia Tell without suffering the consequences.

"So, what brings you here?" She said, putting the cup to her thin lips in disdain.

"I've come to petition a lot destroyed some time ago that may help the city."

"Ah, you want the Lizard consulate," she put the teacup on the saucer, looking straight at the wizard. "I wont allow one of those dens of depravity in my lots."

"Depravity?" Ifan spoke up, eyebrows cocked, and then looked at Sandor. "Are you asking for permission to build a brothel?"

Sanguinia darted a black look at Ifan.

Sandor neither smiled nor reacted. He remained neutral, his face contracted into a grave mask. "No, Commander. I suppose Lady Tell is assuming I'm asking for her lot to build an academy. Nothing could be further from the truth." This time, Sanguinia looked at Sandor with squinted eyes, the way cats do when dogs are nearby. "I'm asking you to build a clinic. That abandoned lot is isolated enough to let us treat people suffering from possible contagious diseases without putting the rest of the city at risk."

She frowned."Everyone has Source now. We don't need medicine."

"Oh, no. That’s not true, My Lady." Ifan said while Sanguinia squinted her eyes.

Sandor continued, "Most people can heal a scratch, but not a body with several cuts or even a recently dismembered limb. Not an infection spread all over the body, not Source-related illnesses. And beside the diseases, we have the Voidwoken attacks. People get hurt in greater numbers every day."

Sanguinia remained silent, as if she were considering the situation. Looking for help, even though she knew he was biased, she turned to Ifan. And his contribution did not disappoint.

"He is right, Lady Tell. And I can give you my word that this man is well fitted to use magic in this way. He healed me many times when we fought against Dallis The Hammer. We fought tough Voidwoken and survived thanks to him. I support this clinic. My Guardians will need it. The people attacked by Voidwoken will need it. The new illnesses that may affect us all, in the short term, makes this project vital. Lady Tell, please, put aside your biases. The Guardians will bleed for you, for this city, for all of those to whom we protect. Give us all the chances we can get to survive the fights. We are soldiers, but we are no longer expendable."

Sandor blinked in surprise at those words, many of them usually considered _too fancy_ by Ifan himself. Of course, the Commander was a charming man with a witty tongue; he could convince anyone with his smooth talk without borrowing words. But, unlike the other times that Sandor saw him trick someone, this one felt more real — too real. And he could not miss the fact that, indeed, Ifan had been acquiring some of his own fancy expressions in his way of speaking. That little fact made his heart beat faster.

Moved by Ifan's words, Lady Tell looked at the fire in the hearth, silent, pondering her thoughts. "Well. You'll have it. Build your clinic. But I will need reports, monthly."

Sandor bowed his head slowly. "Thank you, Lady Tell."

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand, "Just leave now. I have other matters to discuss with the Commander."

Feeling uncomfortable with the dismissal, Sandor frowned, unsure of her words. Was she kicking him out? The butler appeared by his side, showing him the door with an extended arm. Yes, she was kicking him out. But having obtained what he was looking for, he did not make the situation more complicated, and followed the butler’s directions.

After the butler said a polite goodbye to Sandor and closed the door, he returned to Lady Tell, awaiting further instructions. She ordered him to burn the boxes and throw out the china teacup. Everything that a wizard touched had to be destroyed.

Ifan frowned in disbelief. "He is not ill."

"You never know with wizards."

Ifan looked at his tea and bit his tongue. If she only knew the truth, she would burn the entire room just because of his own presence. "So, about equipment funding..."

* * *

When Ifan returned to his room in the Barracks, he went straight to Sandor's home. He found him quiet, looking at his nocturnal tea — by now cold — lost in thoughts. He embraced him and gave him several pecks behind his ear. Suddenly brought back to reality by his touch, Sandor drew his body against Ifan, desiring to be covered by him. And Ifan was happy to please. He playfully embraced him tightly, resting his chin on Sandor's shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Ifan whispered in his ear.

"Just tired."

"Really? None of _that_ affected you?"

Sandor remained silent for a moment, observing his cold tea. "Maybe a bit. But nothing that I'm not used to by now. After all, I come from the Academy of Balurik."

"And what does that mean?"

"That I survived _a nest of vipers_."

"Well… I'm here to soothe the pain of that bad memory." Ifan kissed Sandor's neck, biting softly, stealing some low hums from the wizard.

With a gentle touch of his fingers on Ifan's cheek, Sandor stopped him. He turned a bit, and pointed out a chair that Ifan dragged beside him without complaint. They sat closer than usual, and, with a warming spell, Sandor reheated the tea in the cups. He leant on Ifan's chest, breathing in his scent, and accepted the embrace once more. He needed that. A small place where no rejection could ever reach. A pair of arms that had become the shelter he always needed.

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) . 

  * **Bromhead, Natalie** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3308) ]: Patient of Gregorious Swann. She is a purged sourcerer recently submitted to a surgical intervention that placed a worm in her brain. You can save her in the quest [ A Danger to Herself and Others ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/A+Danger+to+Herself+and+Others)
  * **Hardwin, Thorm ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3379) ]: Veteran Paladin you find in the Paladin Bridgehead in Reaper's Coast. He had a common past with Ifan, fighting alongside during the War. He is bitter at Ifan for his change of path — from crusader to mercenary.
  * **Lysanthir Winterfall** [Headcanon, original character]: Elf from the North, raised in a well-known human scholar family. He was raised by humans, over several generations of the same family. He is based on [ Omupied's art ](https://www.deviantart.com/omupied/art/FENWYN-293743851) , just adding the Divinity elven proportions and their bark skin.
  * **Swann, Gregorious** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3306) ]: Healer close to Paradise Downs, who hosted Natalie Bromhead. He gives you the quest [ A Danger to Herself and Others ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/A+Danger+to+Herself+and+Others) , asking you to perform a surgical intervention to remove a worm from Natalie's brain.
  * **Tell, Sanguinia** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3849) ]: Loan shark that gives you a quest in Arx. She is basically a banker, and I found in that detail the best inner enemy that a city can have. She is a weak human-shaped demon.
  * **Thrash, Papa or Guardian** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Papa+Thrash) ]: Also known as Papa Thrash. He is a dwarf outlaw guarding the main entrance to the Undertavern inside the Black Bull in Driftwood.
  * **Yarrow, Lady or ex-Magister ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Magister+Yarrow) ]: Ex-Magister from Fort Joy, daughter of Migo, a sourcerer that you find in Fort Joy beach yelling Yarrow.

… _on the previous fic:_

**Dhaleram:** [Headcanon] It means "weak honour" in Elvish. It is a label that describes non-elves who passed the ritual that allows them to have the closest ability to gain memories. They require a knowledge of the Elvish language, the elf who will be honoured alive, and a certain degree of intimacy that can vary. Sometimes, Dhaleram can keep the memories fresh by an obsessive compulsion of remembering them daily, fighting against the natural loss of memories their biology entails.

**Unstable Source** : [Half-canon] In _Divinity: Original Sin_, the Source was corrupted and caused madness in all its users. From that game comes the idea that Sandor's instability will produce madness. I'd like to think that in some parts of Rivellon, and so many centuries after _DOS1_, some ill rumours and modified versions of what truly happened before still survive the passage of time.

**Balurik Isles:** [Headcanon] They are a continent South of Rivellon, populated mostly by humans, with some small groups of elves living in La Cordillera. It's based on Latinoamerica concepts, mainly South America.

**Source ashes** : [Headcanon] Magical equivalent of DOMS (delayed-onset muscle soreness). When a Sourcerer keeps using Source after reaching their limit, they will feel pain in every fibre of their body as a result of the effort. Trying to use Source when the person is affected by Source ashes, makes the intensity of the summoned Source lower and its control more complicated.

… _on Chapter 1:_

**Saheila and the Mother Tree: ** [Half-Canon, almost canon] In Act IV, you can find Saheila in Arx, claiming the elves are going to fight against all of the other races. I always thought this was a bug. If you did not destroy the Mother Tree, it makes sense to see her in that state. One could assume she is under complete control of the rotten Mother Tree, and now this evil Tree wants to take control of all of Rivellon using an army of elves. I would even go one step further and assume that the Mother Tree is a manifestation of Tir-Cendelius, who loves to have elves as slaves.

However, if you help Saheila destroy the Mother Tree, she will be free of its control and becomes a wise leader. In fact, beyond her behaviour in Arx — which doesn't change whether you destroyed the Tree or not — you find a different situation in the narration at the end of the game, the "Powerpoint slides" ending. In there, she becomes the new leader of the Elves, sharing the knowledge of the Source with the other races, and having a diplomatic, cooperative, and friendly approach to them.

Tovah, her mother, will be the faction of elves who would be more dangerous, considering they want to recover the Scion system with Mother Trees controlling them via Hive mind, claiming this as a part of their traditions, and fighting against Saheila's faction. So, this is why I consider Saheila's behaviour in Arx as a bug (if you destroyed the Tree and freed them). Hence, this fic will focus completely on a more leader-like Saheila, adversary of the Tovah's faction, rather than a "crazy imperialist" elf.


	2. Chapter 2

He was piling up all of the paper he would need. With a quick glimpse over his desk, he analysed the amount of ink he had. It was going to be sufficient for at least five hundred scrolls, he estimated. Enough for now. Later, he would buy supplies.

He patted the pile to compress it, but the pressure was misplaced and the papers slid along the table; half of them fell on the ground. He sighed. He probably needed more patience than usually required to enter into the monotonous mindstate for crafting magical scrolls. He hated the task, no matter for whom he performed it; whether it be for the Academy of Balurik or Arx City, a burden it was always. Five hundred healing scrolls, requested by Ifan the previous day, needed to be crafted by the end of _that_ day. He sat on his chair, lifted his robe's sleeve and took the Source-charged feather. It was better to start right then and there.

The new Guardian recruits were too prone to burnings and lesions during the first year of using Source in their fighting training. It was understandable, considering that usually Sourcerers developed and learned to control their power from a young age. Now, thousands of warriors had to face one of the biggest changes in their lives — and it had happened from one day to the next.

The relationship between Source and emotions was not making the process any easier either. Just like that, a silly skirmish could result in a dozen recruits wounded simply because one of them felt a bit more stressed about their duty. And then, of course, there were always the usual wounded — someone who did not dodge a good clash of a sword and ended up having a long, bloody gash somewhere on their body, which required immediate healing.

To have Sandor around during training was not fair. The Mestre of Knowledge needed to be focused on the construction of the new institutions Arx needed. There was plenty of work to do instead of watching fighters get hurt. A bunch of scrolls would replace his presence, at least in less dramatic situations.

After several hours of being bored to death, Sandor finished his task and appeared in the barracks with a big pile of healing scrolls. It covered most of his face, making his walk to the infirmary more complicated than it had to be — especially if he had to keep into account the constant dodging of the many recruits running along the corridors.

“Oh, you are the famous Sandor das Balurik, Mestre of Knowledge in Arx.”

A voice coming from behind him stopped him in his tracks. With difficulty, he turned back and saw an elf extending his hand in a friendly way. Nervously eyeing the hand in the air awaiting his, Sandor looked around; he needed a place to put his pile of scrolls, but the corridors were empty of any furniture he could use. To avoid any impoliteness, Sandor put most of the weight of his load on his forearm and, though forced to move in an awkward way, was finally able to give the elf a lopsided handshake.

The elf laughed. “Oh, please. Forgive me. Let me help you with that.”

He took over without struggling, his long limbs better fitted than Sandor's for such a burden.

“And you are...” Sandor said, finally appreciating his companion without any obstacles in his immediate line of sight. The elf was taller than average, with long wavy hair that reminded him of the colour of autumn. His grey eyes, full of mischievous intentions, had a glint in them which set them apart from any pair of elven eyes he had seen before. There was something radically different about him.

“Guardian Lysanthir Winterfall, at your service.”

Sandor frowned and, without any self-control, his curiosity overtook his common sense. “Winterfall? Forgive my rudeness,but... that's a famous scholar family in the North. Are you... related to them?”

Lysanthir smiled. They had just reached the infirmary where he casually plopped the scrolls on the main table. “Well, I should not expect less from a scholar. They know so much. _Always._”

Sandor looked aside for a moment, unsure of the sarcasm hidden in his comment, “Forgive me. I didn't mean...”

“Your honest question is... why is an elf part of a famous human scholar family, right?”

“No. Not exactly. In fact, I was thinking that, maybe, _that_ was the true nature of the famous family that nobody ever saw. It wouldn't be the first time a secret like that would be kept quiet in favour of human exceptionalism.”

Lysanthir raised his eyebrows and smiled wickedly. “I see. You are a rare human too...” This time, Sandor squinted at him, suspicious. “But the truth is, yes. They are a human family whose ancestors were more powerful and smarter than the current generation. So, they replaced the talent with mystery. And about me, yes, they simply raised me.”

Sandor blinked. He had never heard of an elf raised by humans, simply because elven childhood spanned two or three human generations.

“Long story. For another time. Maybe,” Lysanthir said quickly, and Sandor accepted with a nod, “But now I have the privilege to meet you. Would you accept an invitation for a tea? I've heard you are fond of good blends.”

Surprised again, Sandor pointed to himself, “Me?”

“I don't see anyone else in this room.”

Pressing his lips into a fine, nervous line, Sandor nodded and led the way to the common kitchen.

Lacking glassware or china, they sat around an old wooden table and enjoyed tea, which Lysanthir had carefully brewed, from earthen mugs. Sandor knew something was off. Guardians were busy people and their leisure time was a luxury. Having one of them spend it with a wizard was unusual at best — Sandor felt there might be something else behind this invitation. Overthinking it was deepening his frown.

“Is it not wonderful what we are building?” Lysanthir said finally as Sandor looked at him in silence, “A year ago, Arx was almost decimated by the Voidwoken, with an Order split into two factions. The people, abandoned at Gods' mercy, had to leave their child-shaped mind and behave themselves as adults, taking responsibility for what's going to come. No more prayers, or wishes in front of an empty altar.”

Sandor looked down again. Nobody but Arhu knew what had truly happened in Lucian's tomb. The cat-wizard had taken all of the blame when he communicated to the people that the Gods had finally died alongside Lucian. He decided to make up this story in order to protect the Godwoken, now spread across Rivellon living their own lives. After all, Arhu was too old to be annoyed by people's hatred, and he was clever enough to avoid any huge repercussions. His renown as a powerful wizard also prevented him from being attacked so easily.

As such, he had spun an elaborate version of the facts in which the Godwoken only appeared as final fighters against Bracuss Rex and the Voidwoken. It was vital that people could keep a bit of faith in something, and the Godwoken were a good option. They were the living example that people did not need to trust in gods and superior forces, but in themselves. Arhu always wanted to impress that cultural change onto the masses.

“I've heard that you have known the Commander for a long time.”

Sandor's eyes jumped from his tea to the elf, before he lowered them slowly to the table once again. “We fought together. True.”

“Did you see him at his weakest?”

Sandor did not answer immediately. Instead, his mind wandered through the mist of memories, bringing back that heartbreaking image of Ifan lost in thoughts on Driftwood pier, after massacring his pack; that time when he almost killed Hannag and discovered the truth about the _Deathfog_ which broke him and made him drown in drudanae for days. Or that time on the Lady Vengeance when he showed him his wrists, exposing his last possible layers of vulnerability. Sandor raised his eyes. “We were all at our weakest, back then.”

The elf savoured his tea and smirked, squinting at Sandor, piercing him. “Did you know Nueleth?”

Sandor’s eyebrows shot up, but he remained silent.

“Oh you _did_ know her. That reaction speaks volumes.”

Again, Sandor looked down and tucked his long fringe behind his ear. He had to keep his reactions under control. “Not personally, but the Commander told me once... some stories.”

“Yeah. He does that,” he took another sip, “I knew her. She lived in the North, some years before the commander was even born.” He laughed. “She was admired by many. Especially for being so close to the Divine. She was a wonderful woman, charming and merciful, strong and intense as a dragon. She used to fulminate people with her gaze.”

Sandor tapped his shoddy cup with a finger, a bit nervous. He was lost as to the purpose of the conversation; the only thing he was sure about when it came to Lysanthir was that he was testing him, somehow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“She used to say that we, elves, should never befriend humans. They live so shortly, in comparison with our long lives. Yet... she ended up marrying one. And, ironically, she was the one who did not last.” Lysanthir sighed, a dark sentiment tightened his chest. “Do you know what I mean?”

“No. No idea. Not in the slightest.”

The elf frowned. “What kind of scholar you are if you can't infer.”

“Well, the useless kind, maybe,” Sandor shrugged.

Lysanthir laughed merrily. “The useless kind doesn't kill a Divine.” Warily, Sandor remained silent in an attempt to hide his surprise. “No need to lie to me. I'm Saheila's right hand, I know the truth. I saw it. I saw that you, Godwoken, killed your own gods. The secret is safe with me, don't worry.”

Sandor averted his eyes. “Who knows. The useless, stupid kind can kill thousands. Stupidity is more dangerous than weapons and Source, sometimes.”

“Ah, there it is. That's a scholar’s tongue.” He laughed again. “Well, getting to the point, I wanted to know if the Commander needed something. A person, I mean. Can you give me _that kind_ of personal information about him?”

Sandor blinked. “I would if I knew. _Unless_ the Commander explicitly told me not to say so.”

Immediately, his response was met with a squint, as if the elf had detected something in it. “Ah. I see, I see. Well, I'll ask you in the future, then. If you don't mind.”

Sandor shrugged once more. He pretended to drink his tea slowly, to avoid Lysanthir's piercing eyes. Bored with the situation, which had turned silent as the grave, the elf simply stood up and excused himself — though not without thanking Sandor for his assistance. Before leaving the kitchen, pretending he had almost forgotten, he smiled at Sandor and casually mentioned that he and the Commander would be training until late.

Confused and tired, Sandor rolled his eyes and allowed his shoulders to sag, remembering that he still needed to buy supplies for more scrolls.

* * *

Sandor made his way to the store when he himself finally left. Loitering in front of it, was a quiet, tall figure wearing a hooded cape; they were facing the barracks. Curious about their intense gaze, Sandor followed his line of sight. It was focused on the entrance to the Guardian's training field, where Ifan and Lysanthir appeared later, talking and laughing while teaching recruits some movements with sword and shield. For a moment, Sandor also stared at them.

Ifan stood in front of Lysanthir, his shield pressed against the elf's chest. Several recruits were scattered around them, listening to the explanations he must be giving. In one quick movement, Ifan swept the elf’s leg and made him fall on the ground; in a flash, he jumped on Lysanthir’s chest and pressed his shield against his legs. The elf’s long arms reached for Ifan's neck who, in another quick movement, shifted his body to hit Lysanthir’s throat with his knee. Lysanthir had the advantage of his long body, Ifan of his quickness.

When the fight seemed to be in favour of Ifan, several cracks of Source appeared on the elf’s skin and, after a shock of lighting spread all over his body that dazzled Ifan, he rolled over and sat on Ifan's belly. His lean, long legs held Ifan's, and his arms immobilised Ifan's. The image changed in Sandor’s mind; any sensual undertones which could be found in it shifted to dark memories of his past that made his stomach sick. Defeated by his own mind, Sandor swallowed with some difficulty as fear sneaked across his back.

Forcing himself to stop watching, Sandor lowered his face and entered the store. He needed to shoo away the stupid ideas that were flitting around his mind as well as those memories that continued to corrupt his present.

When he left the store, he avoided looking toward the training field again; instead, he observed the hooded person who had not moved an inch since Sandor first saw them. Judging by their height and constitution, it was an elf. By the strange level of energy he was emanating, Sandor could guess it was a mage — or at least someone who could use Source in a more sophisticated way than the average recently-awakened Sourcerer.

Despite his tiredness, he felt drawn in by that energy, his curiosity always taking the worst of him. So, he spoke: "What are you looking at?"

The figure turned a bit, not completely surprised by his presence, and confirmed his assumption; it was indeed an elf.

With a smile as wicked as Lysanthir's, the elf waved a hand in the direction of the field. "I think those two have something going on."

Sandor sighed. It seemed that city elves were quite fond of gossip and rumours. He looked again to those two figures. He could not see Lysanthir's face, as part of the torchlight behind him made his face impossible to distinguish. But Ifan's was illuminated by it, showing a face tired yet pleased with the hard work. Sandor loved that face — a face which had lost the sadness rooted deeply into the _Deathfog_, and showed a slight touch of mischievousness that usually lighted Ifan's green eyes.

"I've heard the Commander was raised by elves, so he likes them much more than humans. He was even married to one, a long time ago.”

_Yeah, yeah._ Sandor was getting tired of that same tale told over and over. He sighed and remained silent.

“Don't you think that young one seems to care a lot about him?"

Sandor looked at the ground, tucking his long fringe behind his ear again. The gesture, a mere excuse to avoid the pressure of those pale eyes under the hood, did not help him. The atmosphere around him was turning stifling. He lifted his head and met the elf's eyes directly. He could only distinguish the dark, thick, bark-like skin of the elf’s chin; several wrinkles and white hair were falling out of the hood.

"Do you know anything about that elf?"

"About Lysanthir?" Sandor’s question was answered by the elf with a short nod. "I don't know. It's not my business."

The elf smiled but it never reached his eyes. “And even so, why do you mind it?”

“Let's say I have a personal connection to _them_.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow, “_Them_?”

“Do not worry. I won't waste more of your time, Sir. Good night.” The elf walked away towards Arx's gate, leaving the city.

Sandor pressed the bridge of his nose and swore in an ancient language to release the stress of a day with the weirdest interactions he had ever experienced since returning to Arx.

* * *

Arms akimbo, Arhu squinted at the burnt building — the former Lizard consulate — while Sandor, standing by his side, was focussing as hard as he could on the architect's explanation. The woman — an old dwarf who had been living in Arx for more than fifty years — displayed her blueprint before him. The dimensions of the clinic were bigger than the former Lizard Consulate. With Arhu’s approval, Sandor accepted the architect's deal immediately. She called her group of workers and commenced their job on the spot.

Satisfied with finally having people working on the clinic, both wizards returned to the Cathedral. Arhu wanted to show him the small changes that the building had undergone. The old House of Gods had been transformed into a complex of studios and libraries. Slowly, it would become a hub of sophisticated knowledge of and for all of the scholars in Rivellon. As a gesture of gratitude for Sandor's involvement in these projects, Arhu assigned him the biggest reconditioned room – the best studio the Mestre of Arx could ask for. It had several windows and tables, free space large enough to divide it into different sections with folding screens, and a sizeable library from the ground to the ceiling. Some stretchers were gathered in a corner beside a sophisticated mobile table with surgical instrumentation on it. In the farthest corner was placed an enormous set of shelves to store chemicals. Indeed, the best studio a scholar could ask for.

Sandor's face brightened at the sight of the place. For the first time in his life, after thirty years of seclusion in the Academy, he finally had _his personal_ research lab.

Both wizards walked to the other corner of the room, where a dead black mirror and its replica leant against the wall, continuously emanating their purple miasma.

“They told me this was yours,” Arhu said.

“It is. And I wanted you to check it,” Sandor said, extending a palm up towards the mirror as an invitation for Arhu to inspect it. “Do you know how to make it work?”

The cat-wizard tilted his head while inspecting it in detail. Casting some spells on its surface had no effect, so he elegantly tapped its surface with a finger. No reflection at all. “I've known some similar devices in the past. Cyseal was full of them, allowing us to travel to far away lands. They were spread all over the Luculla Forest and beyond.”

“So, I was right. This artefact is useful for transportation,” Sandor smirked, proud of his own guessing.

“In general, these work as portals. But this one... this one feels strange. As if it were a portal to other dimensions,” Arhu's fingers caressed the mirror’s surface. The miasma surrounded Arhu's arms, turning into a soft whirl in the air. Then, it disappeared.

“Is that possible?”

“I don't know. I only know this one feels strange. If you make it functional again, avoid using it for transport. At least, at first. It doesn't feel right.”

Sandor shook his head, “Don't worry. I don't know how to make it work anyway. The man who was helping me, Tarquin, was the only one who could get a reaction from it. A worrying one." Sandor slouched his shoulders a little, "Dark tendrils extending out of the mirror, and burning his skin. He rejected working on it until the mirror would stop producing such an effect. Sadly, after the destruction of Divinity, he returned to Driftwood. I haven’t heard anything from him ever since.”

Arhu stroked his goatee softly, observing the dark surface of the mirror. “My only suggestion about this matter is to go to the Dragon's Spine.”

“I guess I have no choice.” Sandor nodded.

Unable to remain amongst the living, Gratiana had created a settlement in the heights of the mountains, in the Northwest of Arx, for all of the Undead to find a place to belong. She had spread rumours that only the craziest wizards were living there, performing experiments and practising their magic, now even stronger with the additional scraps of Divinity. The rumours were convincing enough to keep curious eyes far away from the place and, at the same time, worked as a good excuse for the strange contributions they could offer.

In fact, some of those rumours hid a bit of truth. Since the end of Divinity, the Undead had become more powerful, and their secret contributions against the Voidwoken had been turning more and more extravagant over the months. Of course the Guardians appreciated their help without complaints; the Undead were an invaluable source of knowledge about the old gods and the Voidwoken.

“Mn. Maybe I should pay those lands a visit, eventually,” Sandor sighed. The distance was enormous.

“If you are going to visit, do it soon. Don't waste time. When the clinic is finished and the academy up and running, we won't have much time outside of our duties here.”

Sandor nodded, tapping a finger against his chin, considering the situation. Indeed. He had to use this downtime in a more productive way.

* * *

When Sandor stepped into his house, the sound of pots and pans coming from the kitchen prepared him for the sight of Ifan cooking. The house was filled with the smell of rabbit and carefully spiced vegetables. It was guaranteed that they were going to eat a delicacy that night. Sandor left his staff beside the entrance and plopped his bag full of books on the free end of the table. He walked to the kitchen and leant against the door frame.

Hair dripping water onto his shoulders, wearing a plain fresh shirt and trousers, and hands free of any bandage, Ifan was stirring the ingredients in the pot. He had had a long and arduous day of training and that moment of peace in _their_ house, preparing _their_ meals, had put him in a really good mood. He wanted to give Sandor the simple gift of an elaborate supper after a good bath.

Sandor sniffed the air, pleasant with the delicious smell. He touched Ifan's shoulder blade, peeping inside the pot by his side.

“_Bez Den Arhab_.”

Sandor blinked at him, curious. “What?”

“It's like a _welcome home_.”

Sandor smiled. “That doesn't sound elvish.”

“It's not. It's the only thing I remember that my parents — the human ones — used to say every time they saw a client entering our trade tent. I learnt its meaning later, when I had a contract in Mezd city. A woman translated it to me as “_come and take shelter from the sandstorm._”

Sandor smirked, “That's what I call a compact language.”

Ifan chuckled, “Somehow you made me remember that, just right now,” he got closer to Sandor, and nuzzled him, sliding his arms around his waist. The intense boiling of the pot stopped his caresses and, ruefully, he broke the contact to return his attention to their meal. Dinner was ready.

When the meal was ready, they went to the main table and ate peacefully, sharing the domestic adventures they had faced during the day. It was a mundane routine that they were falling into, enjoying it deeply despite having no excitement proper of the adventures. Knowing for sure that the end of the day would involve a calm shelter, with warm food and an even warmer bed, made them feel content in a way none of them had experienced in their lives.

However, that wonderful feeling of serendipity was broken when Sandor told Ifan about his plans of leaving Arx to head to the Dragon's Spine. The dinner finished with a sad silence between them. Only when they were drinking their usual tea at the end of the night, Ifan spoke again.

The genuine smile that Ifan had been wearing all night disappeared, and a resigned sigh followed it. “Ah, that blasted mirror.” He could not avoid it. Every time he thought about that mirror, his guts screamed and the alarm was sounded in the back of his mind.

“I know. But as I said. It may have–”

Ifan rolled his eyes and imitated Sandor's voice, “–_a __strategic__ value_, I know, I know. But, Sandor... if this strategic value means going to another dimension, what if it opens the doors to the God King's realm?”

“It's another dimension, not the Void. And besides, that's exactly why I need to go to the Dragon's Spine. There is nobody more suitable to tell me if this mirror can hold a connection to the Void or the God King than the Eternals. Maybe I can find Fane. Or Gratiana. Since Lucian's _true_ death, we haven’t seen them anymore.”

Ifan sighed. He knew Sandor was as stubborn as a mule. It was a waste of time to try and convince him to do otherwise. He finished the rest of his tea and continued in a sad tone, “So, er, when are you leaving?”

“I was thinking about tomorrow at dawn.”

Ifan dragged his chair closer and embraced him, nuzzling his neck. “I will miss you a lot.” He whispered between pecks.

“You will have a lot of entertainment here in Arx.” Sandor said. Although his comment had no ill-intentions, the image of that beautiful elf with his long copper hair filled Sandor's mind. His most hidden fears grew, like a gentle breeze turns into a violent wind before the storm.

_Change_.

He could not help but think that change was going to come in the form of bark-like skin.

After letting out a tortured sigh, Sandor looked at Ifan intensely, pouring a long, strained silence between them. His sad brown eyes curved Ifan's lips. The man was completely fascinated with his eyes, and never hid it.

Like swirling winds, Sandor grabbed Ifan's necklaces and pulled him in, kissing him deeply, demanding him to open his lips and let him take away his breathe. Ifan offered no resistance. Being commanded like this aroused him more than he liked to admit in that moment.

Sandor bit Ifan's lip and explored his mouth with his tongue mercilessly, his hand resting playfully on Ifan's waist, tugging at the trousers cord.

Ifan moaned softly and reached for that hand, guiding it to touch his scarred skin at the sides of his hip. Feeling the need for a deeper touch, Ifan broke the kiss and took his partner’s other hand, sliding it beneath his shirt, before hungrily finding Sandor’s lips once more. He hummed in pleasure when Sandor's soft fingertips started to play with his nipple.

This was something that Sandor enjoyed deeply, especially when his fears tried to take control of his mind — to put Ifan in this mood, to make him ask for more. It gave Sandor a slither of confidence that, sadly, dimmed as soon as the image of Lysanthir appeared in his mind.

Sandor broke the contact and lifted his hands to cup Ifan's face. They looked at each other intensely.

“Do you want me to continue in bed?”

Ifan's half smile was mischievous.

Sandor chuckled. Deciding to spark the flame of desire and put aside the fear change instilled in him in the most secret corners of his mind, Sandor stood up from the chair and extended an inviting hand toward Ifan.

“Is this handsome man ready for my humble gift?” Sandor said.

Ifan's smile broadened, baring his pointy teeth. He wet his lips and, smirking, took the hand and accepted the deal.

Dragging him through the house, Sandor pushed him gently onto the edge of the bed, kissing his neck as his fingers ran along Ifan's chest. They went down and unfastened the cord of Ifan's pants. After a brief pause, Sandor slid his hands inside and grabbed Ifan's sex. Surprised by the touch, Ifan hissed with a jerk, his hands on Sandor's waist, immediately looking for support while the wizard focussed mercilessly on his neck, biting and kissing and licking.

Sandor stopped after a moment and spread Ifan's legs, kneeling between them. A knot formed in his throat and his back stiffened; his body was starting to put up resistance to what was coming. Ignoring the symptoms, Sandor kept massaging Ifan's member, encouraged by his soft moans and grunts.

Like shadows in a long corridor, repulsion started to grow in the back of his head. Flashes of his past made his stomach churn. He stopped. Lysanthir's face appeared in his mind, kneeling before Ifan, doing what Sandor had intended to; unlike him, the elf was coaxing incredible sounds of bliss out of Ifan. Sandor frowned, angry and frustrated.

_This is the only thing you can do. Do it right._

Ignoring the nature of these thoughts, misinterpreting his frown, Ifan cupped Sandor's face, stroking his cheek, “Wait, Sandy... You don't need—”

“I hav— I want to,” he said, blinking. Without letting Ifan speak, Sandor engulfed his erection with his mouth. He closed his eyes tight, as a storm of memories made his body shiver violently, retching at the disgusting sensations engraved into his own flesh. The tension was such that he contracted his throat in a way that made Ifan moan, throwing back his head, his hot breath mingled with hisses and moans.

Denying the twisted game his mind was playing, Sandor started to move his head angrily. _He _should be the one causing Ifan to erupt in sounds of ecstasy. Not that _elf_.

Ifan was unsure what to do, so he kept one hand on Sandor's cheek, caressing him gently; the other, resting on his shoulder, gave him support to resist the waves of pleasure.

“Sandy... stop it if... if it's too much...” he whispered in a ragged breath.

But Sandor continued. In his mind, the past memories and Lysanthir's face started to mix, while red letters appeared over the scenes:_ This is the only thing you can do. Do it right. _

He pressed his eyes tight, some tears escaped from the corners. His stomach jerked several times when Ifan's fingers began to apply a tension that he could no longer control. Some rough panting, the erratic movement of Ifan's hips, and a long loud moan mixed with a whimper gave Sandor the last warning.

“Sandy... I can't... anymore... stop it.”

But Sandor continued, enduring the deep repugnance he felt. Imagined past scents filled his nostrils; his body felt phantasmagorical oily hands touching him. Still he continued. This was Ifan. He _wanted_ to do this.

_This is the only thing you can do. Do it right. Do it right. Do it right._

Completely lost at the edge of frenzy, Ifan slid his hand from Sandor's cheek to his hair and grabbed him. In that last moment, Sandor pushed his mouth deep onto Ifan's erection and remained there; a guttural sound escaped his throat. Ifan wanted to stop him, but it was too much for him to resist. Ifan threw his head back. A high-pitched moan parted his lips and ended in a rasping grunt. His legs, still trembling, were pressing Sandor's shoulders.

When he finally recovered his senses after the sudden peak of pleasure, Ifan immediately released Sandor's hair and pushed him away, gently and worried.

Ifan's sex slid out of Sandor's mouth, but the wizard remained static — eyes shut tight, tense fingers sunk in Ifan's waist. After all that bliss, Ifan could only feel guilt at the sight of Sandor's face. He was not seeing a man content in providing pleasure to his partner, but someone once again living a personal nightmare. Uneasy for towering over him, Ifan immediately let his body slid to the floor and rubbed Sandor's arms gently. He tucked Sandor's long fringe behind his ear and stroked his cheek. The gesture finally allowed Sandor to open his eyes. His throat kept making a sound, as if he wanted to swallow something but he could not.

“For the fallen, Sandy... don't. Spit it out.”

As if those words freed him, Sandor's shoulders hunched in an attempt to hide his face. Taking a handkerchief from his robe, he spat everything on it. Horrified, he looked at the semen spread across the fabric. More memories washed over him.

Gently, Ifan took the handkerchief from Sandor's hands and folded it before throwing it aside. He touched Sandor's chin, moving his face to look at him. Ashamed, wincing, Sandor tried to hide his tear-filled eyes.

“I'm sorry... I... I didn't want to....”

Ifan shook his head, mortified. “Please, Sandy, don't do that. You promised me not to force yourself,” Ifan whispered, pulling Sandor gently into a caring embrace.

“But I have to,” Sandor's voice wavered. “This will never change if I don't... If I don't force this...”

“We said we would go slow.”

“I don't want to reject you. I don't. But my body does. And I don't know what to do, Ifan. I don't know.” Sandor buried his face in Ifan's neck and burst into tears, releasing all of the tension he had been enduring until that moment.

Ifan rubbed his back, “We'll find a way. One step at a time, dear.”

Sandor could only feel the repulsive echoes of the past crawling in his flesh, while his frustration and fear now ran deeper into his soul. Soon, things were going to change between them and, in that change, he was sure that he was going to be left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it is silly, but if anyone is interested in watching Sandor's house, I've done it with the Game Master mode of the game [with all its limitations and bugs], and several screenshots and a video can be seen [[here](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/187905203852/sandor-das-baluriks-house-in-arx-fic-the-divine)]. I usually try to have visual help to keep the images in my mind when I write in order not to lose consistence. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ifan's shield delivered a potent blow against the five recruits, who were thrown into the air. After the demonstration, he put his sword aside and the shield against the wall. His breathing was a little shallow.

He drank some water and continued his explanation, “Recruits, never trust in numbers. An enemy may lure you away to get you alone. You must be aware that you can always end the fight _ on your own. _ Voidwoken are not stupid animals; they can use strategy. Beware.”

After a collective _ yes sir _, Ifan dismissed them, a long day of practice was finally over. In a corner of the training field, leaning on a wall, Lysanthir clapped with squinted eyes and a broad smirk.

“Astounding. You are quite skilled at using a shield. For a former Wolf," the last part was added in a whisper.

Ifan half-smiled. Of course Saheila knew about his past, his present and — probably — his future somehow. She had promised to keep that information to herself as a way of securing better relationships between the elves and the humans. Having a former Lone Wolf for a commander of human troops was not the best way to inspire trust in elves. Besides, Ifan was considered, much like Lysanthir, an extremely valuable link between both races. To overlook the details of his regrettable past with a group of killers that had tormented elves here and there was a strategy, according to Saheila. They could not afford to waste the opportunity to build strong bonds.

As such, it might have come as a surprise to discover someone else beside her would know about it. However, Ifan understood that this was not so; after all, Lysanthir was her right hand. _ That _ was also a strategy.

Ifan cracked his neck; the noises coming from his back and shoulders sounded both painful and oddly pleasant, “I was part of the Divine fucking Order before that. Of course I’m skilled at using shields and swords. But, how did you know about it? Saheila?”

“About your Wolf past? Yes. She didn’t name me her right hand on just a _ whim _ . She shares _ her gift _with me. Sometimes. Before coming to Arx, I asked her to give me her impression of you. I saw how you helped her when she had been kidnapped. And how you liberated us from the Mother Tree's influence. I also had a tragic vision. Death in a forest.”

Ifan frowned, knowing that the elf was probably referring to his past, his childhood, though he was surprised that Saheila had been able to see it. He had never allowed her to lick his skin — how could she have known? He shrugged; Scions always were strange elves. “Well, it's the past.”

Serious, Lysanthir bit his lower lip and focused his eyes on Ifan's. “It was _ not _ the past. I saw you crying over a pile of stones, beside a pillar in a clearing close to the Arx Forest. Someone is by your side, though I can't see them, but you are telling them that you lost everything once again.”

An icy, ominous chill crossed his back. Shocked by the revelation, Ifan, who had wanted to take another draught of water, let the bottle hover in mid-air. His questioning eyes looked at Lysanthir and then, unfocused, they fell to the ground. He had lost everything once, but life had presented him with a brand new opportunity to rebuild. New friends, a worthwhile duty, a warm city with a bright sky above him, a caring partner. He looked at the elf, worry transpiring in his face. Unlike other humans, Ifan had a deep respect for elven visions.

“You say that's my future?”

Genuinely worried, Lysanthir nodded. “You know how these visions work.”

Ifan looked down. His throat became dry. The idea of losing everything again frightened him. Considering the moon he was born under, and the curse it represented, such revelations did not seem to be something to take lightly. A waxing moon was always a heavy weight to carry, no matter how strong the back that bears it. Lysanthir's hand on his shoulder brought him back from his worrying thoughts.

“Do you want me to see again? Saheila's powers are fading in my flesh, but something is still there. Maybe I can use it to see that future again.”

Ifan shook his head. A lick now could reveal too much of his present. “No, it's okay. I prefer not to.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Most prophecies only come true because they are self-fulfilling. The less I think about it, the better," Ifan said, but his tensed jaw implied he did not believe his own words.

“I see. Sweep the dust under the rug. You have been mingling with humans for too long, it seems.” Lysanthir smirked, but his good cheer never reached his eyes.

* * *

That night, Ifan could barely sleep. Doing it in the barracks' chambers did not help. However, it was preferable to sleeping in Sandor's empty bed. Its emptiness would only emphasize Lysanthir's words, which kept echoing in his mind since the elf dropped them. It was only natural. With Sandor travelling alone through the cruel mountains of Dragon's Spine, only dark thoughts could grow in his head. He could list thousands of potential troubles along his way: rogues wanting to rob him, Lucian fanatics attacking him after discovering he was partly responsible for the gods' death, anti-wizard groups that could lynch him, avalanches, or a simple misstep during climbing. He sighed. He needed to calm down.

The following days worsened Ifan's taciturn mood. Having Sandor so far away filled his soul with fear and doubt. Despite all those dark thoughts flitting around, he tried to focus on something that could keep him busy. He was going to work on his manual, a broad set of instructions for military strategy with a few rules that would standardise Guardian training in all places around Rivellon.

To do so, he had to start with references and previous works along similar lines. That was the main reason why he became a usual visitor of the barracks library every moment he was not training recruits. His free time was mostly dedicated to reading old books of famous strategists and general books of military strategies. Some of his Guardian comrades joked around about his new_ scholarly _ stage, claiming it was a sort of Divine Justice for all the jokes Ifan had always made at the expense of scholars.

Ifan laughed at those quips, but, deep inside, reading had become a temporal hobby that made him feel closer to Sandor. At the same time, it provided him with an excuse to keep his mind busy — creating something he had wanted to do for a long time.

Every new idea or inspiring concept read in a book was written down in a notebook, which he always kept in a pocket on his belt. Not to be alone in this quest, Ifan informed Gareth of his intentions, who enthusiastically not only embraced the project but wanted to be part of it as an editor and a collaborator. He wanted to add the Seeker's essence to a document that would remain as a testimony to the true nature of this new Order.

Ifan was a bit wary about the whole situation. Gareth was fascinated by the philosophy of _ following orders _, while Ifan had developed an aggressive aversion to it. Despite these differences, he accepted Gareth's participation as long as he could refrain from showing his admiration for Lucian — and any other bullshit he must have believed in the past. In the worst case scenario, Ifan could always split the book in two sections and keep Gareth's contributions as a minor addition. Or an appendix. Something that screamed how out of place it was in his book of instructions.

Even though the project of the manual was interesting, and he was committed to it, he could not stay focussed for long. The thought of Arx being attacked before they could raise an adequate group of Guardians, or the thousand possibilities of finding Sandor dead one of these days, were always flitting around his mind. They felt so real. The past images which Rhalic used to imprint on him allowed more fears to slip through the cracks; sieges and raided cities, Sandor's lifeless body, worms eating everything, and dark eyes looking at him — always those dark eyes he had been seeing in every dead thing ever since his first kill during the war. He shivered.

“You've been acting weird lately.” Suddenly, a pair of intense grey eyes appeared in front of him and blinked slowly. Lysanthir's silky voice finally resounded in his ears and snapped him out of his thoughts. “Never seen you like this before,” that wicked smile, half-malicious, half-smirk, appeared on his face, “and I’ve never seen you so present after training, either. I wonder why. Aren't you welcome anymore where you used to be?”

Ifan frowned. He had been deeply lost in thought again. He looked around; all the recruits and high ranking officers were having dinner cheerfully. He looked down in front of him at the table, his stew was getting colder. Beside it, a couple of opened tomes showed a map of Rivellon and texts about strategy planning. He had been scanning sentences without truly reading. He hated when that happened.

He closed the books and looked at Lysanthir. “I guess I'm going to bed. Too tired.”

Lysanthir looked at him, twitching his lips. He always knew when someone was willing to spit something out, and when they were a fortified chest with several locks. “I see. Me too.”

Ifan collected his books and arose, as did Lysanthir. They walked along the dark silent corridors to their respective rooms. After a brief _ good night _, and an awkward silence that Lysanthir used to observe him intensely, they went their separate ways at the door to Ifan's chamber.

Lysanthir only entered his room in order to grab a book from his personal library, before returning to the kitchen. When he felt sleepless in the middle of the night, he liked to be alone drinking some hot tea, while the only sound was the one caused by the turning of the pages.

However, the tranquillity he had hoped for was interrupted by a persistent tap coming from the window. A war owl was pecking at the glass, asking for shelter. Its wings were probably numb from the cold.

Smiling amiably, Lysanthir opened the window and shivered at the cold breeze that entered all at once. He may have bark skin, but he was not immune to changing temperatures. The bird hopped in and, edging closer to the candles on the table, waited for the elf to return to his seat. Attached to one of his talons was a small paper with the Guardian's seal.

Lysanthir took the paper and read it while scratching the owl's neck. The relaxing atmosphere did not last. Footsteps coming from the corridor put the war owl on guard, while Lysanthir awaited for the guest. His lips curved into his typical wicked smile. “Oh, I see I'm not the only one eluding sleep,” the elf said, taking a long sip of his steaming tea.

With a tired face, dark circles under his eyes, Ifan shuffled into the kitchen, yawning all the way. He took an apple from one of the fruit baskets and took a seat in front of Lysanthir. He yawned again before taking a huge bite from the apple and observing the bird. Lowering his eyes, he found the message opened. “What do you have there?”

“Gareth wants to hold the first Guardians’ meeting in the main Fortress, in Stormdale. In two months.”

Ifan frowned. The Fortress was still being built. Besides, he was not sure if leaving Arx for more than a week — the time needed to go there and return — was wise. Stormdale was full of dangers in their surrounding forests, as well as in its inner desert.

“Can we afford to go there? We don't have people experienced in fighting Voidwoken yet. We can't leave only the recruits in charge.”

Lysanthir shrugged, “DeSelby(*) hasn't been seeing Voidwoken activity so far, and Arhu lives here, always. Would people call him a powerful wizard if he couldn’t control one or two Voidwoken?”

Ifan looked at him, unsure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DeSelby ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3771) ]: Paladin whom Lord Kemm was going to execute for insubordination when you enter the Arx Barracks for the first time. Her wife will ask you to convince Kemm to spare DeSelby's life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Half of this chapter was beta read by Hissou, the other half had only a last proofread done by me. Due to the quarantine I thought it was good to release the chapters in this way, and give Hissou their own time to do the betareadeing. I will re-publish the betaread chapters in the future once Hissou finishes them. So, from now on, they will only have like 11th proofread done by me, and still yet you will find a lot of mistakes. :( But I hope you can enjoy the chapters anyway despite those damn mistakes that keep escaping from me.

Sandor kept walking along the narrow paths surrounding the mountains. One wrong move and he would fall into the abyss, into the _ Deathfog _ river that meandered along the mountains. This colossal effort to reach the sanctuary of the Undead proved the absolute need for a fully-functional mirror system. It was not only a waste of time, but the long distance simply brought too many dangers.

After several days of struggle, he found a place to rest in a small ghost town which housed a statue of Amadia in its entrance. A thick layer of snow covered most of the rickety houses, which showed no sign of life. When he knocked on one of the doors, nobody answered, as he expected. He felt cold to the bone and hungry. His hope to find shelter faded at the sight of such stillness.

“Sandor.”

A soft voice coming from behind him caught his attention. He turned on his heels and looked at the person covered completely in thick scraps of fur; a black and white mask hid their face — Gratiana. He smiled in response. With a demeanour impressed on her by former nobles, she bowed.

“You must be freezing. These lands are not gentle to the living. Come.”

Gratiana invited him to enter a hut which was as austere as the rest of the town. An empty house, without beds or any furniture besides a table and chairs, but with a dead hearth, as cold as the weather. He looked at it with frustration, desperate for warmth. Some natural, non-magical warmth. A sudden image of Ifan crossed his mind and made him smile.

“What brought you here?” she said, taking a mug that had been standing idle on a shelf for a long time. It was full of dust. She cast a water spell to clean it and opened the window to sink the mug into the snow. With her gloved hands, she magically heated the mug to turn the snow into water and made it boil. She handed it to him. “My apologies. We don't have anything hot to offer.”

Sandor bowed his head, grateful for the humble offering, but gritted his teeth slightly still. “I need knowledge.”

“Would it not have sufficed to send a simple messages with war owls? Why bother coming here personally?”

“I'm afraid it wouldn't,” the moment he finished his words, a long rumble in his stomach echoed through the lonely hut. He pressed his belly, embarrassed.

Gratiana tilted her head, “We don't have food either.”

Sandor forced a smile. Of course they hadn’t. Undead needed no nutrition to survive. The thought made his stomach rumble even louder.

Worried, Gratiana looked out the window. “However, we can check with a man who has been living here for a while. He is a magician.”

Sandor blinked, “A living one?”

“Quite so,” Gratiana said in grave tone, “But it's hard to say when he is home. He is not always here.”

Suspicion tinged Sandor's face. Even mages were afraid of the Undead; why a mage would live amongst them was a mystery to him. _ Unless he wanted to hide _, he thought. If he really was hiding at a time when Sourcery was no longer a secret, it only increased Sandor's mistrust. This mage was an ill omen.

“Does this mage know about the God King and Voidwoken?”

“Absolutely. He is researching them. Many times, he showed up with some Gheists to analyse their behaviour. And worried the whole town to the point that some preferred to leave the mountain and stay among the living with Fane's gift, that tool that--”

“I know, I know.” Sandor raised his hands to stop Gratiana. He did not need a description of that disgusting Face Ripper, “And you allowed Gheists in these lands?”

“I asked him for his reasons, and concluded they were well intended. In our agreement, we negotiated that he was going to explain to me what he was doing from time to time.”

Sandor scratched his chin, “How does he reach this place? It's hard enough to come. I can't imagine how hard it must be to leave.”

“I'm not sure. From one day to the next, he simply disappears. Nobody sees him come or go.”

They headed to the magician’s house. In front of it, a couple of skull totems had been raised. Sandor frowned, swearing under his breath. Under closer inspection, these decorations bore a resemblance to the ones found in Isabeil's laboratory. The obvious explanation for the presence of these totems made his jaw tense. Was this mage a Black Ring member? He sighed, wishing to be in Arx.

The door opened not long after Gratiana's knock. The hot air coming from the inside surrounded Sandor, who shivered at the comfortable sensation of warmth.

“Please, enter if you must, just don't keep the door open. The spells to warm this house require a type of Source that I can't use by myself yet. I don't want to deplete my reserves.” An affected voice came from the house.

Both stepped in. The room was spacious, filled with several tables on which many artefacts had been placed. In a corner, on top of a pile of books, Sandor spotted an awfully familiar object: a pyramid.

“Ah, look what the blizzard blew in. You are always surrounded by unfortunate events, my friend.”

Sandor turned on his heels and looked at the figure dressed in a loose black outfit; a man with a devilish smile and dark plain hair falling in his face. It had gotten longer than when they had sailed together on the Lady Vengeance.

Sandor raised his chin and crossed his arms.“My, my. Of all the _ magicians _ in Rivellon I never could have imagined it would be you.” Sandor half-smiled, tingeing the word "magician" with a sarcastic tone.

Tarquin laughed and ended the gesture with several coughs.

“I see you two already know each other,” Gratiana said.

“Yes, indeed. I must say it's such a surprise to find you here. What brought you?” Tarquin said, already busy preparing tea. With a snap of his fingers, he tried to boil the water. However, all that he accomplished was setting the kettle on fire. “Ah. I still can't control this Source.” Tarquin coughed again.

Sandor boiled the water for him, noticing a foul smell in the air as he came closer. He sniffed loudly. The gesture made Tarquin walk away, pretending to make room on one of the many tables. They both sat and drank; the first sip of tea brought life back to Sandor, but as soon as that warmth faded, the foul smell crept back in. His hunger weakened when the smell became even more intense.

“Our guest needs some food. He has made the whole journey alone through the mountains,” Gratiana said, leaving the house.

Tarquin blinked in surprise, “What a wonderful physical state you are in, huh?” Tarquin coughed violently again, needing some time to recover. “I envy you, as you can see...” he chuckled, as he used to do every time he wanted to hide something, “Let me see what I have in my pantry...”

He brought hot food that Sandor ate with vigour while observing him prepare a strange potion. Tarquin proceeded to drink it immediately as his cough worsened.

“What's happening to your lungs,” Sandor asked, eyeing the dregs of potion in the flask. He knew that cough was not a symptom of a mere cold.

“I wish it were just the lungs,” Tarquin said, “But let's not waste time on that. Tell me the reason why you are here, now that Gratiana is outside.”

“The black mirror,” Sandor looked aside, frustrated. He knew Tarquin was not of much use on it.

“I've told you a long time ago that thing was a waste of time. But no, _ you _ weren't going to listen to me,” he coughed again.

Sandor stopped eating and frowned at Tarquin, whose cough attack was punctuated by a smudge of fresh blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. “What's wrong with you?” Immediately Sandor stood up to cast a simple healing spell on him, but a sharp pain pierced his palms. Tarquin shook his head, extending an arm to put distance between them.

“Don't do that. It killed the last healer who dared.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow. This was a challenge, “Let me see.” Sandor got closer, rubbing his own palms to ease the still lingering pain.

“It is an awful sight, I have to say.”

“Please. I must insist.”

With a sigh of annoyance, Tarquin started to unbutton his clothes. Slowly, he let the sleeves drop off of his shoulder and exposed his torso. A more intense foul smell reached his nostrils. Sandor winced at the sight of a greenish decay spread all over Tarquin's chest — his skin was festering.

“What's this?” Sandor cried in surprise.

“I wish I knew.”

“When did it start?”

“Dallis. She used a domination device that purged me or something alike. The decay had only been in my forearms and hands, but soon after we went to the Nameless Isle, it spread all over my body. I used all I know about necromancy to heal it.”

Sandor scoffed. “Necromancy is not exactly the best school of healing.”

“Oh, indeed. Such sharp thought didn't cross my mind, _ ever _. What do I know, right?” Tarquin said in an extremely sarcastic tone. Both kept eye contact for a long moment, lips twitched in annoyance. Finally, Tarquin sighed, “Putting aside your brilliant comment, I'll tell you what I think: this is not because of a mere purge. I think it's some kind of family legacy — but not exactly a curse, mind you. I ran all the tests I know to check, and the results came out negative.”

“So, family legacy?” 

“My father died of something like this, but it was when he was already old. I never found the reason for his illness. Much less the cure. Not to mention that I discovered it when it was too late. You know, academy policy about not visiting your poor parents anymore, because it looks _ bad _ for them.”

Sandor nodded, feeling the pain of it. He clapped his hands, making them glow with an intense green aura, and put them on Tarquin's shoulders. He felt the yielding, festering texture under his fingertips and winced. The flesh had lost its natural tone; instead, it looked mottled — a badly mixed concoction of pink, yellow and green reminiscent of third-rate meat left in the sun for days. He cast a strong Source healing spell and sustained it, forcing the pain and rot to recede slowly.

The healing tendrils of Source spread into Tarquin's body, reaching for his inner organs. The coughing stopped. The feeling of a fresh clean breath made Tarquin smile. 

Minutes passed by and the intensity of the healing did not falter. Tarquin was surprised and, at the same time, worried. How long could a Sourcerer sustain such a high intensity of magic? The feeling of cleansing became visible on his skin, closing blisters and removing pus. The greenish colour of his flesh became pink again. The decay receded to his arms.

Then, Sandor fell unconscious.

* * *

Sandor awoke on a hard bed, covered with fur. The soft clinking of glass tubes and movement caught his attention. A couple of meters away from him, in a corner of the small house, Tarquin seemed to be working. His movements were a lot more energetic than what he remembered.

Slowly, Sandor got up and, using his staff as cane, heaved himself to the table where Tarquin was pottering about. His knees buckled along the way; without waiting for an invitation, he hastily slumped in a chair and began rubbing his temples to dispel the dizziness from his head.

“You gave me a heart attack when I saw you fall. I thought I had killed you.”

“Oh please, I'm a good healer,” Sandor said with a half smile. “Are you okay?”

“Much better, indeed,” Tarquin patted his chest energetically and breathed out, smiling. “But not cured. Now it is located only on my arms. But at least I can breathe.”

Sandor extended his hands to Tarquin, asking to see his arms. The necromancer allowed it, rolling up his sleeves. The decay now looked like small dark tendrils under his skin — no blisters or pus in sight.

“I wonder what this illness is,” Sandor mused.

“I do not know. This is, in part, another reason I have for wanting to explore other dimensions. Do you remember how the black mirror reacted to me a year ago?” Tarquin glanced up at Sandor, who nodded. “Well, I imagine the reason is this.”

“The mirror never reacted to anyone else. What if this illness is something from another dimension too?” Sandor suggested, “Arhu told me that he believes the mirror is connected to another plane. That's why it's not working. I came here seeking answers.”

Tarquin shook his head; eager to cover up again, he pulled his hands back and his sleeves down.

“Gratiana can only tell you about the Void,” he continued, “She doesn't have a lot of knowledge beyond it. And for me... well, I'm only a _ magician _ who can't answer those questions. I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

Sandor scoffed, but followed it with a smile. “I'm glad we met. That thing in your skin was not going to grant you much time.”

A short, but loaded, silence hovered in the room. As if to disperse it, Tarquin clapped his hands, “Well, let's see if the old lady knows something you want.”

When he returned to the house shortly after, _ the old lady _ had already been brought up to speed. Gratiana beckoned Sandor to show her the mirror fragment. The shard had barely left his bag when the surface began sprouting tendrils, which stretched towards Tarquin in a desperate need to touch him.

“Ugh. It still remembers me,” he recoiled.

With a fast movement of her hand, Gratiana cast a barrier around the looking glass. The tendrils disappeared like smoke in the air.

“Fascinating…” she stepped closer, almost imperceptibly, “I never imagined seeing this again.”

“Do you know something about this mirror?” Sandor said.

“It is not a mirror,” she corrected, “it is a portal. It jumps into different dimensions, using the nothingness between the worlds. Braccus used this to contact other dimensions. It’s a material made by the first creators — before the Eternals, before the God King.”

“My, my. Are you saying this is made of Nadaer essence?” Tarquin observed the dark fragment still resting, magically encapsulated, atop the handkerchief in Sandor's hands. “Is that possible?”

“It's difficult to keep this essence free of corruption. It happens naturally when you bring it into this plane. It tends to become Void, but _ this... _ I've never seen an essence this pure before. And thankfully I didn't. Otherwise, it would have meant that Braccus had the chance to become invincible.”

“How so?” Sandor asked. He covered up the shard with the cloth and, with a renewed suspicion, tucked it away again.

“This essence can be turned into endless Source. And with it you are capable of casting all the spells you want, all the time, with maximum intensity. _ That _ would have allowed Braccus to jump into dimensions and conquer them all.” She lowered her head, “I remember all the people assigned to the task to find this. So many historians tried to find this mysterious object, the truth behind the myth. All of them failed and were condemned to be trapped in endless mazes, burnt beyond life and death.”

Sandor blinked, “I found one of those historians on the southern coast of Driftwood. He said he had found something terrible.”

“Then you should go talk to him.”

Sandor shook his head. “Back then, I tried to convince him to tell me. He didn't. And,” he hesitated, “I let him have peace.”

“I can't give you more help. I simply don't know anything else,” she stopped in her tracks briefly, seemingly contemplating her next words, “However, I met a young dwarf whose expertise in chemistry has proved to be divine. I trust she would be able to manipulate this essence without turning it into Void.”

“Oh, you mean Infirma?” Tarquin asked, amused. Gratiana merely nodded. He looked at Sandor and curved his lips into _ that _ smile — the smile that always proved to be a bad omen. “She has been working with unconventional materials. And the best thing? She does it in a safe way. She can manipulate _ Deathfog _ without consequences. And I'm talking about a healthy, young dwarf in the prime of her life.”

Sandor grimaced — a look which did not escape Tarquin’s notice.

“Pleeease, don't tell me you are still with that handsome antique,” he said, a wry smile curved around his lips. “He will be quite disappointed to know the people you are looking for.”

“Ugh. Don't make me think about it,” Sandor scratched his head absent-mindedly. “Well, first things first. Give me the information on that alchemist and I'll see what’s next.”

“Last I saw her, she was hanging around Driftwood. Sometimes she goes to the Bloodmoon Isle, too.”

Ruefully, Sandor looked down. “I'll look for her... _ eventually _. I need to return to Arx. The clinic and the academy must be completed by now, and they are in need of some organising. I would barely have time to spare, looking for another specialist.”

Tarquin raised an eyebrow, “An _ academy _, you said?”

Sandor looked at him and his face lost any trace of a smile. Tarquin, on his end, only broadened his.

“Expect me there, _ eventually. _”

* * *

The dining room was a constant murmur. Hundreds of recruits and future Guardians were having supper after a long day of practice. In a corner of the room full of tables, a small one gathered the highest authorities in the barracks and, also, the most veteran ones.

Although the Paladins were not part of the Guardians, the General Paladin DeSelby — sent by the High Paladin Thom Hardwin — considered herself to be one of them. She was a survivor of the terror to which Lord Kemm had submitted Arx a year ago and was now in charge of the Guardian's “Internal Affairs and External Recognition.” Her main role was to spot potential threats within the ranks — nobody more suitable to detect corruption inside the new Order than a Paladin, after all. She also commanded an external network that allowed Guardians around Arx access to a flow of up-to-date information on strange movements in Rivellon. If her words were to be believed, it was vital to understand the outside movements around Arx in order to spot strange ones inside. Her work, which kept the city safer than others, was invaluable. 

Another important figure among the veterans was Guardian Lysanthir Winterfall: right-hand man to Saheila, scholar-turned-battlemage in charge of the magical troops of the Guardians, and teacher of Source to the many trainees in the barracks. He was also an important pawn in the improvement of relations between Elves and Humans. With the end of Divinity and the acknowledgement of the _ Deathfog _ tragedy, Saheila had sided with humans to recover the forests. As a gesture of goodwill to the alliance, she had sent her most valuable subordinates to the four cardinal points in order to spread the ancient Elven knowledge of Source and Magic.

The last man among those veterans was the leader of Arx's Guardians, the Guardian Commander Ifan Ben-Mezd — although the people of the city were beginning to know him better as “The Hound.” The knowledge of his past as a Lone Wolf had not reached any ears in the far East of Rivellon and, despite the many guests who visited the city, nobody would ever think to associate the sharp commander with the Silver Claw.

“What about our armoury?” Ifan asked the Paladin.

She fumbled with a small notebook tucked underneath her breastplate and showed him the numbers. “Forty-five percent, in comparison to all the recruits that will probably finish their training by the end of the year.”

“Can we get more resources? Iron?”

DeSelby conjured up another list, this time from a small satchel dangling on her belt, and moved the dishes around so she could spread it across the table. “Here. This is the place that Gareth told us about. We can get more resources here, but we need larger troops to protect the miners in case of Voidwoken.”

Ifan took the paper, slid it in front of him, and began reading slowly. With a loud sigh and a fist clenched against his cheek, Lysanthir rolled his eyes, “I wonder why we have boring councils every week if we’re going to keep talking about work every moment of rest we have.”

DeSelby frowned at him, “Arx has a low Guardian population. _ Professional _ Guardians. We don’t even have enough weapons to face another attack like the last one. And Gareth wants us to leave the city for a whole week! We need to keep planning all the time.”

“By the Seven Goners,” Lysanthir yawned, not noticing Ifan smiling faintly at the expression, “that attack was almost a year ago. Guardians didn't exist back then. And it was contained by those useless Paladins. You can't compare them to our recruits.”

DeSelby hit the table with her fist — a hard look marred her face as she squinted her eyes at the elf, _ “We _ contained it quite well. It was the Magisters who were the useless ones.”

“Sure... because your guy Kemm was no true Paladin.”

“I fought against Kemm to the point I was almost executed! And in the end, we knew he was no longer who he used to be. The man who kidnapped Lord Arhu was not a Paladin, but a meat puppet.”

Lysanthir made a dismissive gesture with this hand, “Meh. Magisters, Paladins, soldiers. They look all the same to me.” Then, he shrugged.

“A week is a lot of time to be without a proper force in the city. It only has us. We could count on some old Magisters who have become merchants. They could take up a sword again, should the need arise. And there are two wizards, though I don't know how powerful they are. That's all the defences here, while we keep gathering more and more refugees.” DeSelby described the situation, while Ifan silently read the list of weapons they had to craft in comparison with the few ones sent by Gareth. “Two wizards that can't be counted as one.” DeSelby continued, “One missing somewhere in Rivellon, and another too focused on architecture. No wonder he was so easily kidnapped.”

Ifan snorted. “Don't underestimate Arhu. He is powerful. And about Sandor... he is too.” He sighed, feeling that little twitch in his chest. He missed him. Damned mirror.

“By now he must have found a nice place to stay forever,” Lysanthir said with a wicked smile; his narrowed eyes darted pointedly to Ifan, “He looks so accustomed to higher, more refined, circles. I wonder what makes him stick here. Arx was condemned to decay when Lucian died.”

Ifan laughed, “He will come back. He is just doing research. After all, he is going to lead the academy and the clinic here, and that is something that all scholars want.” Lysanthir hummed in doubt at Ifan's words. “_ Most _ of them.”

“Yes, the clinic. That was very good.” DeSelby drank her wine. “We needed that. For years I've told Lord Kemm to build a recovery centre, something to heal soldiers. Magisters and Paladins were hurt badly on a daily basis. But he always claimed that Lucian's grace would protect us. The bastard.”

Ifan frowned at the list after a moment of silence, “There are still few Source-weapons.”

Lysanthir spoke immediately, “I can teach the technique of charging one’s own weapon with Source.”

“That technique is advanced. Before we finished training all these people, Voidwoken would have destroyed this city several times over. There are few recruits that can safely use that technique. They need extra concentration to focus on Source stability. Besides, everyone is a Sourcerer now, sure, but not everyone is a powerful one. Remember, most of our recruits don't know how to control it. We need to ask all blacksmiths in Arx to learn the technique. Buy Source orbs. Craft some here if needed — we’ll ask Arhu about it. We need more Source-weapons.” 

DeSelby nodded at Ifan. “I'll inform them tomorrow morning.”

Lysanthir yawned, stretching his arms over his head. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a war owl struggling to enter the kitchen. Ignoring the following comments between DeSelby and Ifan, he approached the window and opened it. The war owl gave him a scroll addressed “_ To Commander _ .” He petted the owl, which disappeared after a small but grateful hoot. Glittering dust stained Lysanthir’s fingers — magical residue. It was as if the bird had teleported — or had _ been _ teleported.

He gave the scroll to Ifan who opened it immediately. As he read, Ifan pretended to be unmoved, but Lysanthir could see in his eyes an intense glint, a spark of youth which brought a renewed intensity to them. That message did not come from Gareth.

“I see. Is it good news?”

“Uh? Oh, this. Yes. Talking about missing wizards. Sandor is coming tomorrow night.” Ifan could not help but smile when he folded the message.

Lysanthir smiled his usual, wicked smile, “Ah, now we are safe. We’ve got the proper wizards in town.”

His tone was so off.

* * *

After a jump in the air and stepping on a branch with a terrible balance, Sandor fell from the top of a tree directly onto the ground. He tried to land with grace, but he twisted his ankle, failing to catch a branch to hold his bodyweight, and his face ended into a puddle of mud. He spat out what had come into his mouth and sat on the ground, not sure what to do with his hands, full of mud and dry leaves glued to them. His ankle was hurting. 

Thank the Fallen Ones that Ifan was not there, watching the scene. Definitely, that was the last time he was going to use one of Tarquin's devices for teleportation. He cleaned his body with a water spell, healed his foot with a spark of Source and looked around, finally standing up. Ah, he was in the forest nearby the coast of Arx, the same forest that separated Stormdales from the city. He aimlessly walked, trying to see the sky and identify the North, failing at it. Instead, he found one of those pillars that were supposed to be elven monuments. It was of not much use to identify the North. Once again he thanked that Ifan was not there, witnessing his useless abilities to browse in the wild. After several hours of walking and a complete lack of sense of direction, he finally reached Arx's entrance. 

He went straight to his house, wishing for a better quality food, a hot bath, and his warm bed. If he was lucky, that bed was going to include a warmer body, sleeping. He closed his house's door, threw his bag to a corner, and sighed, as a delicious smell reached his nostrils. He sniffed loudly; grilled meat and vegetables with a spicy sauce, Ifan's speciality. It seemed his war owl had delivered his message in time. 

In the small kitchen, he found Ifan wearing his casual clothes; those loosen pants barely held around his waist by a thin cord and an open tunic which exposed half of his chest decorated with his many necklaces. 

“Ifan,” Sandor whispered, suddenly realising how much he had missed his figure, his warmth, his green gentle eyes.

The man beamed at him, left the spoon on the table and walked into him, hugging him tightly to the point to lift him in the air, weightless. Then, they kissed softly.

“Welcome back, my dear.”

Sandor hugged him again, burying his face on Ifan's chest, the best shelter in all Rivellon. They remained that way for a long moment, tasting in silence the comfortable feeling of security that they infused in one another. 

A plop of sauce caught Ifan's attention once again, and drawing away a little bit from Sandor, he reached for the spoon on the table. Trying to keep the contact of the hug with one hand, he stirred the meal with the other.

They ate peacefully, sharing the news of those weeks: Gareth's invitation to the Guardian's Keep, a new influx of refugees whose towns were swarmed by Voidwoken, Tarquin's meeting, and the need of looking for an alchemist that was living in the Bloodmoon Isle or maybe in Driftwood. On purpose, Sandor avoided any further detail. He did not want to ruin the moment explaining that an alchemist skilful in _ Deathfog _ could be the answer to make the black mirror work. Ifan had enough suspicions with the existence of those mirrors anyway. Besides, he still did not have any guarantee that such an alchemist could be useful. First, he needed to find her and _ then _, convince her to work on the mirror, and maybe, just maybe after that, he would inform Ifan about her profile. So, yes, there was no need to ruin the night for now. 

After dinner, Ifan prepared Sandor's favourite blend while the wizard took his refreshing bath. They drank hot tea at the table, smiling at each other, fond of the other's presence in their common ritual of nocturnal tea. 

“I missed this,” Sandor said, as his words joined the soft sound of his cup tea touching its saucer. Ifan nodded, sharing the sentiment, “What do you know about this new influx of refugees?”

“They came from the North, close to the Deadlands. They are mostly elves. They were placed in the old docks. Arhu checked them but I’d like you to check them by yourself, see if they have some illness that needs healing. The last thing we need is an outbreak of something. Sanguinia already annoys the hell out of me with her imaginary illnesses, I don't want to give her any real cause that would turn her into my personal nightmare. If possible, bring me a report of the situation.”

“Yes, _ Sir _.” 

Ifan chuckled and looked down, shaking his head and pressing the bridge of his nose. “It's hard to leave the commander outside, sorry.”

Smiling, Sandor cupped Ifan's cheek, caressing his beard with a thumb. Turning his head just slightly, Ifan left a peck in Sandor's palm and rubbed his cheek against it once again. 

When they finished their tea, Ifan proposed to go to sleep, while Sandor remained in his chair, looking at him with a mischievous smile. 

“I'm too tired to walk to the bedroom, Commander.” Sandor said, extending his leg in display of his slightly swollen barefoot. 

Ifan raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Sandor was just being capricious, and he liked it. “I can help with that.” 

He lifted the man in his arms and walked to the room, carefully placing him in their bed. Following the flow of the moment, they made out for a while, softly and tiredly until they truly decided to go to sleep. 

* * *

The docks had been destroyed time ago during the first attacks of Voidwoken, when Lucian was still alive, and gods were fighting against the God King. A cursed Kraken had torn the place apart, making it unable to shelter any ship. However, with the influx of refugees to Arx, the Secret Corner -- that old inn which used to turn into a shady tavern in the evenings -- had managed to restore it. Its main intention was not to recover the docks for ships, but to build external rooms instead. 

The refugees that could afford to pay some coins would have access to one of these rooms, placed almost at the edge of the ocean. The less fortunate folks would look for shelter in all nooks and crannies of the docks, among the rubble and the precarious constructions that started to arise, one over the other. That was how the slum, week after week, grew.

The slum population was mainly composed of expelled peasants that ran into the cities looking for safety after the destruction of their farms by the Vodiwoken's claws. Despite the recently acquired Source, most people were not fighters, so the new powers were useless in front of the brutality of the creatures of the Void. Unable to raise food in the middle of the city or to find jobs suitable for them, many farmers turned into Guardian recruits. Although they were training to become the future protectors of the city, many of the old residents of Arx started to show a certain degree of discomfort against this transition. The tensions between the different groups of people were starting to grow again.

With a coarse and simple dark robe covering his thick layered ostentatious outfit and a hood over his head, Sandor slowly walked along the Slum, pretending to be nothing more than a humble priest. Patiently, he wandered alone, knocking at each door of the precarious houses and talking with the people about their needs, registering them in his notebook to report to the Guardians later. 

Of course, the refugees did not ask for anything surprising; the crowded living conditions in this part of the city was a great toll for them, even though they were deeply thankful for being allowed to live close to one of the safest cities in Rivellon. The old dock, now transformed into slums on precarious piers, was already full, and an expansion toward the land was needed. Arx had to extend its limits to allow better living conditions for the new members, that was an unavoidable must. So far, the food was still not a problem; Arx was rich and had deep ties with Driftwood, which continuously provided food and fish. The main problem was the overcrowding. 

From History, Sandor knew quite well that overcrowding was usually the cause of the most dangerous epidemics that fell upon Rivellon. As Ifan had told him, he had to find a way to prevent it before something worse could happen. 

Thankfully, the majority of the migrants were healthy — the weakest ones had been left behind in their escape — . So, Sandor did not register anything worse than some colds and minor lesions such as sprains. The only potential issue, according to the interviewed refugees, was the last group of exiles that had joined the slum; a group of isolationist elves whose communication was an impossible feat; they could only speak and understand Elvish. 

Following the instructions of the interviewees, Sandor went to the South docks, where these elves had built their own homes with mud and branches from the nearby forest. Putting in use his broken Elvish, Sandor could maintain a precarious conversation with some of them, gathering the information he needed: most of them were healthy with the exception of an elder man. 

Without wasting time, Sandor visited this elf in particular. The elder man claimed to have a piercing pain in his hands. His fingers were green and hairy, and a kind of moss had spread from his palms to his wrists. It was a rare fungus-like parasite, immune to Source healing, that used to affect the bark of trees. The cure was usually made with some components that could be poisonous for elves. At least, it was what Sandor had read years ago in the Academy of Balurik in the few books related to elven anatomy. Unsure what to recommend without putting in danger the elf’s life, Sandor promised to return the following day with the instructions for a potion — if not the potion itself — that would heal that condition.

Instead of going to the cathedral, Sandor headed to the barracks; he left the reports of his visit to the slum there and looked for Lysanthir. Because it was common to find him training recruits, Sandor did not waste time and went straight to the training room. And his guess was right. The man was explaining magical exploits to kill Voidwoken and teaching the ability to charge one's weapon with Source. When the lesson finished, he took a glass of water and approached Sandor, squinting at him. 

“Long time no see you, Mestre. How was the trip? Did you find some answers to your... questions?”

“Fine. Thank you. No, sadly I need to travel again, soon.”

Lysanthir hummed looking at Sandor's notebook. The wizard had already opened it and was writing a couple of words in it. “Do you need something?”

“Yes. I'm sorry for bothering you, but you are the only elven scholar — ex scholar, I mean — that I know and can trust.”

Stopping short the glass on his lips, Lysanthir squinted at him, then smirked. “Who did you kill? Do you want me to eat someone?”

Sandor chuckled. “No! No, no. I went to the slum this morning under the Commander's orders and-”

“When did he give you those orders?” Lysanthir interrupted. He had been the last one who saw Ifan entering his room early last night and the first one in greeting him this morning.

“Uhm.. last night. We met in the... streets when I came back.”

“Ah. I see. In the _ streets _.” Lysanthir looked aside. “Yes, go ahead. Your question?” He took another sip. 

“Uhm... I went to the slum and found an elder elf who suffers _ tinea manuum _ , I know how to treat that on plants, but not on elves. The healing potion I know is based on _ Red Flower of the South _ , but… I’ve read that it's poisonous for elves. I was thinking in _ Farfelia _ as a replacement, an active compound in the basilisk's liver. But considering it has the same effect as the flower, I wanted to ask you if you agree it's suitable for an elf.”

“Oh, I see. Smart replacement. So far I know, there is no problem with it. I've drank once a potion made of that _ tasty _ liver. It produces intense memory visions though, but nothing that an elder can't handle. I assure you that.”

“Excellent. Last and final favour,” Sandor took a new sheet on his notebook, wrote the instruction he was going to give to the elf and showed it to Lysanthir. 

Lysanthir read it and frowned. “Elvish?”

“The elder and the new elven refugees don't know Common. So, I wanted to give him the instructions in his language, in order to avoid any mistake in the preparation of the concoction. I would like you to tell me if it... is... _ understandable? _”

Arched eyebrows, Lysanthir looked at Sandor for a brief moment and then lowered his sight to read once again. “This verb here, _ eldanar _ , it's _ el'abar. _ The rest is correct.” He squinted at the wizard, “Where did you learn Elvish?”

Sandor moved his fringe behind his ear. “Ifan taught me a bit.... we... we explored some Elven temples in our time as comrades, so... the more Elvish I knew, the less I required his presence in my exploration.” Sandor quickly lowered his eyes unable to keep up with the lie, and added Lysanthir’s corrections to the scrap of paper.

“I see. So you didn't learn it from that awful series written by an asshole human whose name I can't even remember... _ The Elven Traditions _ book?”

Sandor wrinkled his nose, baring his teeth, ashamed. “I imagine it is a terrible book?”

“It _ is _. As it is your face trying to hide the fact that you learnt it from it,” Lysanthir laughed, and then, more relaxed, Sandor chuckled. 

“I'm sorry. I read that one a long time ago. It's hard to find good books about elves. Especially in an isle which kept them far away, without human contact.”

Smile lingering, Lysanthir shook his head, “We live in human times, only them seem to matter.”

“Saheila wants to change that,” Sandor said. 

“She does, indeed. But it’s not something that will change only by one individual’s will. How can we change the general mindset of the people? That, I wonder.”

“Time, I guess.” Sandor lowered his face.

“Time is not what humans have. Now… _ caring _. Maybe that’s the answer.” Lysanthir said cryptically and fixed his eyes on Sandor. 

Curious by the comment, the wizard raised his sight just a bit to meet the intense gaze of Lysanthir. His eyes were scrutinising him while his wicked smile could even suggest a mockery. 

_ What was the true meaning of that comment? _

* * *

> _ Wandering hearts, unlikely friends _
> 
> _ Facing the fall together _
> 
> _ Never to part until the end _
> 
> _ Staring into forever _
> 
> _ Cheers of the crowd and the strum of the string _
> 
> _ Hearts fill with doting delight when I sing _
> 
> _ But onto my throat something sinister clings _
> 
> _ And I’m finding the Source of it all _
> 
> _ Orders of godhood to wolves in the night _
> 
> _ Wicked the sins that I’ve come to put right _
> 
> _ A name on the bolt, a face in my sights _
> 
> _ And I’m finding the Source of it all _
> 
> _ Slave to the scar and the torturous tone _
> 
> _ Shackled to violence, I’ve hunted my own _
> 
> _ Vengeance will grant me the means to atone _
> 
> _ And I’m finding the Source of it all _
> 
> _ Knowledge of gods and secrets from Source _
> 
> _ Power went mad, magic blasted my mind, _
> 
> _ Seeking to break the inner chains of my soul _
> 
> _ And I’m finding the Source of it all [*] _
> 
> _ Echoes of life _
> 
> _ Drink from the well to ascend _
> 
> _ Gods have awoken _
> 
> _ Echoes of life _
> 
> _ Tearing the threads of the veil again. [1] _

With that last song, Lohse released a wave of Source butterflies, flying around the audience, caressing their faces, tickling them, reaching a bit deeper into their own Source to mingle. The effect was extraordinary. People stood up from their seats and clapped enthusiastically. Grateful for the appreciation, Lohse bowed before everyone. 

She walked down the stage and reached the table where Sebille was drinking her ale. 

“Fantastic, as always.” Sebille said. Lohse giggled and shouted to the barmaid to bring her an ale too. “But honestly. Do you need to expose us in your tales so... obviously?” Sebille covered the scar on her cheek pretending to rest her face on her palm. 

“I was inspired when the song simply came to my mind. And the accords, the sounds, the feelings. The whole show was written in a week, that's a miracle. The whispers in the wind, the murmur in the night, all of them told me how to do it. The last song is the only one where you can find some explicit exposure. The rest of the tales are completely undercover. You can't complain.”

Sebille rolled her eyes but smiled once again when she looked at Lohse in detail, so bright and cheerful. It was such a different Lohse from the one she had met time ago. Now, this musician was overflowing with life. 

Three women approached them and congratulated Lohse for the show. They gave their opinions about the different characters of Lohse's tales, finding all of them deeply touching, with the exception of a wizard who was unable to control his magic. That character was always a disgrace for the audience. Sebille could only laugh at those opinions, wondering what Sandor would actually think about them. Lohse's show had a whole section focused on that wizard who never could properly use a chackram. It was the funniest piece of the show, especially in the beginning, when the character slips over ichor and ends up killing many enemies with a chackram that had just escaped his grip by accident.

While they kept talking, several men appeared on the stage and presented their small theatre company. A new show was going to start soon, so the women left Sebille and Lohse not without congratulating the bard once more.

Lohse smiled while looking at Sebille, “Ferol is so friendly, but I can't wait to return to Reaper's Coast. And visit our friends.”

Sebille hummed after a sip of ale. “I wonder what they are doing.”

“You and Ifan aren't in contact?”

“Yes, but since the last war owl, he didn't answer me. Taking the place of a commander in Arx doesn't give him much free time, I guess.” She chuckled under her breath, “To think he would end up in Lucian's city no less, as a Guardian...”

“Ironies of life. I know. Kind of out of character. But...” Lohse took Sebille's hand across the table, “He didn't have something before, and now, he wants to protect it. A different life. Freedom to choose. That changes people. Always for the better.”

Sebille's face softened even more than usual, lost in those clear eyes in front of her while that soft hand caressed her thick skin. She smiled. 

With music and actors shouting their lines, Lohse and Sebille lost any attention that people around were placing on them. However, an elf approached their table, looking at the musician without sharing a word. Removing her hand, Sebille — as Lohse's bodyguard — glared at him with squinted eyes, a clear threat at first. 

The elf was a mature one, his skin was dark thick bark filled with some deep wrinkles. Sebille guessed he must be a dozen of millennia old. His hair had turned white, and his eyes were dark and lacked any expression. He seemed weary. Some scars could be seen close to his neck and fingers, the kind of scars that a life in the criminal circles used to leave. 

“May I?” He said in a sweet tone, kind and youthful. Sebille was a bit surprised, she was expecting the usual cracked voice of an elder. Hesitant, she looked at Lohse, while the man spoke again, “I'm a huge fan of your work, muse Lohse.”

Lohse giggled and waved her hand to finally invite the man to their table. “Muse? That's new. You are a musician too?”

“I am, indeed.” He sat and placed his bag on his lap to take a flute from it. He waited for the theatre company to end their play and touched the instrument for Lohse. It was an old, old ballad of elven traditions lost millennia ago. Sebille recognised it immediately.

“I almost turned into a scion in my youth.” He said looking at Sebille intensely. With that gesture, he was making sure to give a clear answer to all the questions that, without doubt, were racing through her mind. Then, he focused once again on Lohse, “Your repertory has several epic tales, Muse Lohse. I'm interested in one.” He spoke with his index finger extended, emphasizing the number. His fingers were hardened by time and marked deeply by several scars. Nothing in his hands revealed the finesse of a musician. 

Oblivious to those details that Sebille was observing, Lohse kept talking to the man, relaxed, “Which one?”

“The one in which the heroes save an elven princess from a wood fortress guarded by wolves.”

She smiled. It was the story that she had composed recently based on Saheila's rescue and their attack on the Lone Wolves. To cover the real identity of the members that had destroyed the Gods in other songs, she had turned all of them into a classical archetype, and the enemies were mythical creatures. Only they would understand the truth of the narration under those layers of fantasy. But strangers would never do it, she was sure of that. “The song _ The Dark Whispers in the Night. _”

“Yes. That's the name of the song. I wonder what happened with one of those wolves,” he said smiling, “The one who betrayed his pack, the one called Silver Fang.”

Sebille scrutinised the elf’s facial gestures. She had discussed this with Lohse time ago. Despite the layers of fantasy in Lohse’s songs, she was convinced that the connection could be easily made by anyone who had met the Silver Claw. It was risky. However, Lohse had promised her that it was impossible to do so. It was only clear because they knew the truth behind the artistic picture. 

Lohse had composed her songs applying the standard resources that bards use. She took the real people of the real events and turned them into archetypes, while exaggerating the situation they faced. The golden and silver tones were just additional effects to give purity and exceptionalism to the characters. Nobody would think of them as real. Songs were born as exaggerated interpretations of life. And it was real people who retook them, to appropriate their symbols and use them in their own lives to give them purpose, fame, meaning. Who was the first one in crafting the symbol? A real warrior, or a poetic bard? There was no answer for that question.

Still yet, Sebille was not at ease. She had spent too many decades of her life in dark circles to know that such detail could be taken by anyone who was sharp enough. And old elves were always the sharpest. 

Trying to understand if this man was a friend or foe, Sebille inspected those long aged fingers. They had thousands of scars, as usually millennia old bark has, but unlike the ancient elves with similar hands, this elf's face was not as full of wrinkles as she would have expected. He was several centuries away to reach that age in which elves start being considered elders. Those elves, when they did not belong to the criminal world, were always drowning in traditions and memories, almost always talking to the Mother Tree about better times. Now, it was hard to guess where they would focus all that nostalgia, since She had been dead for a year. However, younger elves claimed that the elders were still connected to the Mother Tree, listening to the echoes of her whispers. Their ancient minds, subjugated to Her voice for millennia, allowed them to communicate with Her spirit, because their connection was so strong that it could reach the Halls of Echos. 

Whether these rumours were true or not, it was impossible for Sebille to know for sure. So the most reasonable action to take before this mature elf, was to remain wary. Her intense gaze made the man smile at her, making her lose her train of thoughts. She looked away. This elf was too old to have hired the Lone Wolves for any work, but not to have been a victim of them. Maybe he had a relationship with a pitiful victim of the Silver Claw.

She looked at Lohse, telling her with her intense eyes that she had to keep him away.

“Oh, Silver Fang died. You can't bite the hand that feeds you.” Lohse said immediately.

“I don't believe you.” The elf smiled, his gentleness seemed the preamble of a twisted nightmare, “All your Godwoken characters made it one way or another.”

“Well, he didn't. Unless you want to rewrite _ my _ stories, which is fine,” Lohse laughed, “But that will be _ your _ story. Based _ on mine _.”

“You must be a little aware about our traditions,” He said, looking at Sebille for a fraction of a second, “After all, you are travelling with one of my kind. Our songs are made of real people's stories. Decorated with epic concepts to make them more impressive. Humans, or dwarves, or Lizards are not different. We sing what we see, what we live, what we want to keep alive. Your song has a truth behind them. I want to know who inspired you.”

Sebille frowned, a little tense, but Lohse's laugh changed her mood. 

“I would never know. See, I'm a host. Spirits come to me, talk to me, make me feel what they lived. Silver Fang died. He crossed the Hall of Echoes, but before that, he whispered his story into my ear, a moonless night. I would say that singing his story has been his final wish to finally rest in peace.”

Sebille looked down. She would have never crafted such a beautiful lie, but at the same time, it was not a complete lie. It was a half truth. Another poetic fabrication of Lohse made of fragments of reality. 

“Ah, such a shame.” The elf sighed, his smile still curving his lips, as darkness covered his eyes. “Sad. I... I was nostalgic... for a moment.”

He put the flute in his backpack again and left the table with a bow. Sebille followed him with her eyes, noticing something was hidden, but as soon as Lohse scratched Sebille's nape, she forgot the matter. 

“Relax, darling.” Lohse said, and Sebille smiled, holding Lohse's free hand among hers on the table. She nodded in silence. 

They had to enjoy their time together. In a couple of weeks they would leave Ferol to head to Driftwood and spread this new show to that part of Rivellon. 

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**   
  


[1] -[ _ Divinity Original Sin 2 Song - Ascension by Miracle Of Sound ft. Karliene (Symphonic Metal) _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kslaeOUk7N4). The verse marked with [*] is not part of the original song. 

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) . 

_ **SERIES NOTES:** _

_ … On Chapter 4 _

**Tarquin's skin condition**: [Half-headcanon]. In the game, the first time we met Tarquin after telling us he had been purged by Dallis, we can see he had a strange decay condition in his skin. Even though we know shriekers have this condition, it's also known that only Sourcerers are those who are purged. Purging a non-Sourcerer would rip their souls. So, this strange condition of Tarquin made me remember the same one suffered by Ryker [the elf living in the mansion of the graveyard Stonegarden] and I wanted to explore it more than just a consequence of mere purge.

**Nadaer I** : [Headcanon, used in the previous fic] Creatures from another plane of existence. In _ The Search for Divinity _ , Tarquin showed the group a book from a timeless dimension that could explain the messy lack of coherent History that Rivellon has [ _ noooothing _ to do with Larian messy lore, no, nope]. One of these Nadaer reached DOS dimension and was controlled by Empress Anatelle [from the lineage of Emperor Sigurd] 32000 AR. Sadly, the Empress went mad and a terrible war happened, wiping out from History all the events that occurred at that period of time. This was headcanoned to explain the big hole in Rivellon Ancient History. Further details can be read in the scene written in _The Search for Divinity: [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633922/chapters/39279148). _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

“This is the city of sinners!” 

A man screamed in front of the cathedral followed by several bombs which damaged half of the Eastern part of the building. The scaffold around it fell apart. Suddenly, people ran away from their houses, some in the barrack's direction, others to the cathedral's, as curious witnesses. In a matter of minutes, Ifan and a small group of Guardians came from the South and broke through the mass of people. 

“This is the punishment brought by the Children of the Gods. We are furious because our parents are dead!” a woman shouted this time.

More bombs exploded on the other side of the building, destroying the small chapel that had been dedicated time ago to Lucian in the West wing. The laboratory planned to build there fell apart with the explosion. 

Annoyed, Arhu appeared from the central doors of the cathedral, holding his staff aggressively. With an energetic hit against the ground, a glowing shield expanded out from where he was standing, covering the whole building. He strode forward to meet the rebels. As soon as he left the protective dome, the renegades attacked him. Too easily, he dodged them, moving his bo while blasting the rebels with kinetic shock waves cast from it. Without hesitation, the Guardians reduced the violent group in a matter of seconds.

The situation was quickly under control, so Ifan gave several instructions to his new recruits to spread the curious people and approached the wizard afterwards. By that time, Sandor was also outside the cathedral, frowning in surprise at the situation while swearing at the fallen part of the building that was going to be the future laboratory of the Arx Academy. 

“What's this?” Ifan spoke to Arhu, extending his hand towards the rebels, now with their arms tied behind their back, face down on the ground.

“Collateral damage from the Gods' deaths?” Arhu dismantled his bo in its three parts and put it in his belt. “You see, not everyone is happy with their new freedom, my friend.” 

“Damn idiots.” Ifan rubbed his face and looked around, the West and East parts of the cathedral were all rubble and smoke. That was going to delay the remodelling of the religious building into a proper, full functional academy.

“Indeed.” Arhu said. 

Since they agreed to blame Arhu on the Death of Gods instead of the Godwokens, the cat-wizard had been the main target of the remaining groups that were still loyal to dead Gods. The attacks had been escalating slowly but constantly. This was not new, Arhu had warned them about this increasing sense of bewilderment that common folk would feel in front of their new freedom.

The consequences of being free of gods, the frustration of being unable to rely on a superior creature's benevolence anymore, and the new acknowledgement and responsibility of oneself’s actions, were prices that not everyone was willing to pay. Especially not the most radical followers of Gods.

Some Guardians were dissuading the curious people to stay away from the scene of attacks when a sudden murmur, coming from the bottom of the crowd, spread quickly to the main front. The low mumble of the mass stopped short and a constant tap became stronger as it got closer. Sanguinia Tell's cane. The mass of people spread apart at both sides of her, letting her approach Arhu and Ifan, as her cane echoed in the street. Ifan grunted.

“I told you this is a pest. It's part of the sickness they bring,” she said looking at Ifan, “You must do something.” She pointed at Arhu with her cane. 

The wizard played with the cane, pushing and pulling it with a grace proper of a cat, and smiled at her, “The only sickness I have it's the one caused by your very presence, Lady Tell.” 

Ifan frowned at both. “What are you two? Twelve?”

Arhu softly laughed while Sanguinia looked at the commander, offended. 

“This is what brings those wizards. They are an infinite _ source _of problems.” 

Arhu laughed, this time harder, “She can do puns. Ah. Good one.” 

Furious, Lady Tell tried to hit Arhu with her cane, but the Wizard stopped it with his bare hands, breaking his laugh off, and glared at her with his slit pupils. Sanguinia, red of anger, spat out, “They are the embodiment of debauchery and depravity. The evil hides within them. They will doom us all.”

Arhu rolled his eyes and pushed the cane against the ground, his good cheer already ruined. 

With a commanding voice, DeSelby dismissed all the witnesses around and approached the captured group of rebels. It was composed of three humans, two dwarves, and a dwarven silent monk. All of them would face a fair trial and would be punished for attacking the city, which would end in a sentence of several years in prison, time enough to make them reflect about their actions. But that was not the case for one of them in particular: the silent monk. These creatures were never responsible for their own actions, they were simple executioners of their master's orders. Punishing this dwarven monk was useless. On the other side, to leave him in the forest, without a master who could order him, was not a better fate either.

“What do we do with the monk?” DeSelby said. 

Ifan winced. He hated those. They always stimulated his recurrent dream about that monk elf he had found in the North of Driftwood, watching at the fire, lost, looking for her child, “A merciful death is better-”

“No!” Sandor interrupted their conversation. He had been knelt all that time, inspecting the tied people, focusing with particular attention on the silent monk. “Enough of killing them.”

“Mestre, please....” Ifan sighed, his head sneakily tilted towards Sanguinia. He truly did not want more resistance coming from that front. 

“Please, let him stay in the academy. I'm researching how to heal their condition anyway.”

Ifan looked at Sanguinia in the distance, who was still arguing with Arhu, “Pretend to jail him with the others. At midnight, bring him to the academy.”

DeSelby nodded. 

That was how, from a day to another, deep into the cathedral, at the back of the room that would turn out into Sandor's studio some day, a couple of beds appeared. The accommodations were done expecting to receive the silent monks that he wanted to heal, _ eventually. _ It was more than obvious that this one was not going to be the only one.

By reading for hours every reference slightly related to Source — including Das Vapour's notes — Sandor tried to find a way to interact with the Dwarven silent monk. He was determined to find a cure, doing whatever it was necessary. He considered himself best suitable for the task, having learnt how to study subjects without harming them. Or at least, that was what he _ believed. _

Das Vapour had studied his own Source for years, and despite being subject to experimentation, Sandor never considered that process traumatic. Quite on the contrary. The measure of his energy and his stability had always been the only way that he could bond with that old scholar. 

Das Vapour's notes were mostly focused on Source, on its origin, on how it worked, on how it was developed by a Sourcerer, and on how they finally mastered it. For some strange reason, his tutor was obsessed with the accumulation of Source. Many notebooks described hypothetical experiments to engage quick regeneration of Source in living creatures; others, developed different reservoir devices to contain it. Despite the rich information in those texts, Sandor would not find any remote possibility of healing silent monks, so he put them aside. He needed to think by himself. 

In an attempt to catch the silent monk's attention, even for a brief moment, Sandor talked for hours about diverse topics watching every inch of that immutable face of clouded eyes. Once again, it was useless. The silent monk was an unresponsive creature, that, despite the strange concept, it looked like living in a permanent nostalgia. In many Magister's journals found during their first time in Arx, Sandor learnt that silent monks were prone to melancholy, and that state could only be solved by a sudden injection of Source into their systems. Under such a principle, he summoned a small ball of concentrated Source and sank it into the silent monk's chest. Although it did not produce a radical change in his behaviour, the silent monk seemed to have acquired a better predisposition for interaction, to be a little bit more receptive. Now he needed to find elements that would produce some effect. 

To use his voice was useless, so Sandor planned the contact through visual means by displaying objects to catch the monk’s attention. To begin with, he opened a book of illustrations in front of him. This book, used for teaching children, contained the most common and simplest objects of daily life. After showing pages and pages without reaction, one of them made the silent monk move his chin up a little bit. That was all the gesture he was going to get from him. Trying to understand if this reaction was genuine, Sandor displayed the same page several times, mixed with others in different order, finding for his satisfaction that the monk kept repeating the same gesture over and over. There were no doubts, a picture of a circle was what did the trick. 

Scratching his chin, Sandor looked at the picture for long minutes. A circle was a meaningful symbol for all races. It could be the representation of the infinite, the eternity, the timelessness, the Sun, the mother. It infused the idea of movement and cycles, of perpetual motion, and also, of zero, the nothingness itself. Sandor sighed. Maybe was it a representation of the Void?

He rubbed his face and then, joining the tips of his index finger and thumb, he made a circle in the air and observed it. The thought of open mouths, moaning, and body holes crossed his mind. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh, his stomach suddenly revolted. 

Realizing that everyone could give a different meaning to such a simple figure as a circle, he abandoned the task for the day. It was better to work on his side project: a flowerpot and an elvish book that he had borrowed from Lysanthir to learn Elven culture from a better source. 

In that book, he had found the comment of a curious spell barely explained in detail that allowed vegetables to grow faster. The possibility to control growth and prevent famine in a city whose refugee population was increasing, was too tempting for him to put aside. He had to know that spell. Lysanthir had told him that such conjure had been lost forever among the elves and was considered more of a myth that used to appear in Elven tales than a real, tangible spell. However, Sandor knew that behind every fantasy tale there was always a degree of truth, so he was determined to scratch it. 

Of course, he was also aware that such a powerful spell could not be easily performed. Manipulating life was always harder and more demanding than bringing death. 

His best guess was to produce a fragile balance between the four elements: earth, water, fire, and air; the foundations that every seed needed to grow. Earth was required to move the best nutrition from the soil; water, to ease the seed's thirst; fire and air, to provide the best environmental conditions to let it shoot across the soil and rise over the ground. It was an extremely delicate balance between warmth and freshness. All these elements had to be put together and be potentiated by Source.

The concept was demanding. Performing it was going to take everything from him, if he made it work, somehow. Sandor mostly feared for the first part of the spell. He never had a gift for earth magic; it demanded five times more Source than any other would. Casting it turned his body into an inner battle, his Source burning and reaching uncontrollable intensity to be barely capable of shifting a bit of rock. That was the effort that any wizard marked by Water had to pay to use such a power. 

Das Vapour used to tell him that one single element was the birth's mark of any Wizard. There was always an element too natural in them, a symbol that reflected their personality. It was easy to understand why Arhu's was the control of the air; his character--so carefree and light--was influenced by it. Jahan, despite being able to use all elements due to his vast experience, had always found it easier to control the flames; the violent and raged tongues of fire were a clear reflection of his belligerent soul. The mark of earth was extremely rare in wizards, and so far the legends went, Zandalor was one of those; powerful and ancient with the strongest ability of all. There was nothing that could stop a wizard marked with it. 

Sandor always found it frustrating to know his mark was water. The softer of all elements, always condemned to take the form of the vessel that imprisons it, too easy to mould, too passive. It was the mark of the healer, but it was so... dull. However, there was nothing to do against it, the birth’s marks were unchangeable. He only could wish that his peculiar Source would provide him the strength to perform the spells that his nature prevented him. 

Sandor sighed, putting aside those discouraging thoughts, and extended his hands over the flowerpot. His arms started to tremble while long bright cracks of source expanded all on his skin. Moving earth was painful. He groaned, sweat falling along his temple, and buried his fingers inside the dirt of the flowerpot. His eyes were steamy, Source emanations were pouring from them. He cast all his efforts in balancing that violent amount of Source, but could not avoid the hefty draining that earth spells produced in him. Water was unable to change and shape rock quickly. Its eroding ability required decades to be seen. Wanting to change it right there, now, demanded everything from a water-marked wizard. 

He saw a shadow of a movement underneath the dirt of the flowerpot; some fragments of earth were rolling slowly on its surface. But then, out of the blue, his Source was cut off immediately, his knees faltered, and fell on the ground, exhausted, burnt. He was going to feel Source ashes in every fibre of his body the following day, that annoying pain that reaching Source limits used to leave in the flesh. 

Slouched shoulders, he sat against the table leg and gathered enough energy to stand on his feet once again. He sighed in frustration when, by inspecting the flowerpot, he confirmed that the dirt movement he had just seen was not the random movement of the shoots spreading up to the surface, but the result of his own trembling body. 

What a bad day. It was a good moment to simply leave the academy and go to his house. He needed a rest. Helped with his staff as a cane, he reached his small shelter in that city and let his body collapse on the bed, falling asleep immediately. Later on, by the end of the day, Ifan awoke him with a smile while caressing his hair. The room was filled with a delicious smell of food. 

“Dinner is ready. Eat something, then go to sleep again.”

Obedient, Sandor nodded and accepted Ifan’s help to get up. The process made that tiny ring in Ifan's necklace shine in such a way that caught his attention. Its circular form triggered the idea. _ A ring _. The circle was a ring.

* * *

The next day, Sandor ran into his studio, bringing several types of rings in his hands. He showed them all to the silent monk, one by one, inspecting in detail his reaction. The conclusion was that the simplest rings were the only ones that imprinted some effect translated as a tension in the silent monk's face.

He put several single rings across a small stick, crafting a long fine tube made of them. This shape deeply disturbed the silent monk. And only then Sandor understood. Annelids. A worm. That was the meaning of all that. 

Opening his storage container, he searched among the hundreds of jars for one full of maggots. He showed it to the silent monk and for the first time since he had brought the creature to his studio, he saw a vivid reaction without command. The monk stepped away and put his guard up. A guttural sound, as if it were a drown scream, escaped from his sealed lips.

It was clear. The worm was the only thing that was blocking any reaction, and at the same time, it was so feared that was the only thing that could break that block. Sandor needed to remove the worm, like he did in Natalie Bromhead(*) during his visit in Paradise Downs. If it was not too late, the silent monk would still have a chance to return to his normal life, to heal. However, there was a serious problem. The clinic was not finished yet and a surgical intervention of such magnitude in that studio was not promising a good result. What choices did he have? Maybe waiting for the clinic to be finished could doom the monk to be this puppet for the rest of his life. 

Steeling his heart, Sandor put the silent monk on a stretcher, face down, and tied his limbs. He cleaned his hands and took a scalpel. The cut, made on the silent monk's nape, was small but deep, and a pool of blood oozed from it. The silent monk started to react in the worst possible way: he screamed. The screams were so heartbreaking that Sandor's hands started to tremble not only as a consequence of the stress, but also as some childhood memories suddenly surfaced in that moment. 

Startled, Arhu burst into his studio, asking for an explanation of the screams, which was clear once he saw the pool of blood under Sandor’s feet and the silent monk tied to the stretcher. Disgusted, the wizard cat simply looked aside and left. 

Forcing himself to focus in the middle of those screams, Sandor opened the cavity of the incision, and digging with forceps, he could identify the worm inside the monk's head. However, it was too deep into his brain for simply removing it. It was obvious that taking that worm off would end in a sure death of the silent monk, so he recoiled. This silent monk, unlike Natalie Bromhead, had been turned long time ago, and the worm had nestled deep into his brain. He had to develop and try another approach for a case like this. Clearly, further study was needed. He closed the incision, healed it with Source despite his ashes, and headed to his library while giving time to the patient to recover.

Losing the tack of time, Sandor only realised it was already night when a knock in his studio's door interrupted his reading. The door opened showing an enormous Gheist, standing. 

Startled, Sandor jumped from his chair and grabbed his staff, casting immediately a shield of water, ready to fight this killing machine. However, the creature remained still. From behind it, a man in black stepped in, smirking. Sandor sighed in relief and put his staff down. It was Tarquin. 

“I see you work pretty late. I like that spirit.” Tarquin said. 

“You've just given me a heart attack with that Gheist. For the Fallen, Tarquin, I'm going to be in trouble if you walk around with a Gheist in this city. I have enough people hating me just by opening this academy and-”

“Easy, easy, my friend. I've just come in perfect stealth. How do you think the _ protectors _of this city would have allowed me to enter with this specimen?”

Sandor put his hand on his mouth. Why Tarquin was like this, _ always? _ “I'm one of them, you know?”

“Ah, are you a Guardian too?” He hummed, “To _ that _ extent did _ that _ man drag you?” Tarquin raised his eyebrows while Sandor rolled his eyes. “I hope my companionship as a man of Knowledge will keep our bond stronger than yours with them.”

Sandor frowned, squinting at Tarquin, the implication of those words were a bad omen. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking your word. You invited me to your academy.”

“I.... I didn't _ invite _ you.”

“Details, details. You _ need _ me, Sandor. Was I not of great help during your previous mission? Anathema is one of my biggest accomplishments after... rising... certain someone. You know.” He smiled devilishly as his eyes glinted, “What kind of challenges do you have here?”

Leaning his staff on a wall, Sandor scratched his head, not sure if having a necromancer around was going to provide any benefit in the fragile reputation of the academy, especially after the last turmoils in the city, but he shrugged. Tarquin had proved to be a good ally time ago, and despite his chaotic moral, he was always an interesting scholar to exchange ideas with. 

First, Sandor explained his interest in healing silent monks, and by looking at Tarquin's Gheist, that included that monster too. Tarquin did not mind helping on that matter, even though his skills were far from being useful in healing aspects, but he always embraced challenges. 

The second project was the black mirror, that artefact that had obsessed Sandor since the first day he saw it. Tarquin did not complain even though he claimed he was going to stay far away from it, considering the negative reactions of that artefact against him. 

Then, in a lower priority, Sandor explained other side projects like the growth spell and blueprints that, with the collaboration of Engineer Sanders (*), were going to result in a sophisticated alarm system to protect the whole city from the danger of the Void. 

“I see there are many, many things to be done here. Not a dull moment. And I'm more than happy to help.” Tarquin said.

Sandor tilted his head. “But why are you _ truly _ here?”

“My passion is knowledge, my friend.”

“I know, I know, but... you can do any research everywhere. You have your own studio in the Dragon's Spine.”

“It's cold. You saw the place, it's dull. Every resource I need, I have to leave and face dangers that make me waste time that I could use in my own projects.” Then, more serious, he lifted a bit of his sleeve. “Besides, I need you closer.” His arm was again showing the symptoms of the skin decay. 

Sandor sat in a chair and invited him to come closer. He lifted Tarquin’s sleevea further than his elbows, placed his palm on the decaying skin, and summoned Source to heal him. He was already tired — the growth spell had taken everything from him — but he did not mind burning his Source completely. The more he used it, the more stability he would have at the expense of a permanent tiredness and Source ashes. Both were always more preferable than blasting. 

“There are some rules you need to follow if you are going to live here,” Sandor said while Tarquin looked at him with attention. “That Gheist... you need to inform Ifan that we have one of those here. We cannot betray the trust that Guardians and the city gave us allowing an academy here. He probably will want to kill it. It's more dangerous than any silent monk. The academy has to be part of the solutions, not of the problems.”

“I have it leashed. It only responds to my command.”

“I don't know. Convince Ifan about it.”

“Can't you do that? Make your puppy-eye-thing? He is weak to that.”

Sandor frowned, “What? Don't say... nonsense. About _ that... _ never imply to anyone that Ifan... and I. You know.” 

Tarquin raised his eyebrows, “Why? I didn't get him as a shy man, with all the lovey-dovey things he was always doing around you.”

Ashamed, Sandor lowered his face. A silly smile escaped his control for a fraction of a second. “No. It's not that. Arx has an important figure with a lot of political and economical power. She hates wizards, she hates this academy, and she, particularly, hates me. She may also have some interest in Ifan... so we agreed that, to make our lives easier, we better pretend... not to be anything.”

“Understood.” 

Sandor released Tarquin's arm, just before his Source faltered. He observed that skin, once again plain and without blisters, but clearly showing underneath the dark veins of an illness impossible to heal completely. 

“You need to teach me how to do this by myself.” Tarquin said. 

“I can, but I'm afraid you won't be able to do it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No. I drain myself to heal you. Do you have that amount of Source to do it?”

Tarquin hummed. “That's not a problem. I can always find a way. You know me. Resourceful as I am, there is no match.”

Sandor shook his head and scoffed. Tarquin was a lost cause. “We'll see. I don't have much room in my house, but you can come and-”

“I'm going to live here.”

Sandor blinked, “In... the academy?”

“Is it not where the other wizard lives? The famous Arhu. He, for sure, will have some small free room to offer me. Right? Besides, I've heard he loves cats. I do too. We can be really good friends.”

Sandor rubbed his face. Tarquin certainly was determined to get things in his own way. 

* * *

True to his word, Sandor returned to the slums after a couple of days, looking for that elder elf that needed his concoction to heal a fungus illness on his hands. With his broken Elvish, Sandor gave him a small flask and a piece of paper with the recipe to keep the treatment for a long time. Surprised by being able to read it by himself, the elder thanked his gesture. 

Just in case, before returning to the academy, Sandor checked once more the dock surroundings, looking for someone who may need his services. During this walk, a little dwarven child approached him and gave him a piece of paper. 

_ Meet me at Lucian's monument, South outside Arx. _

Curious by nature, Sandor could not miss the call and went to the meeting place immediately. The walk to that point brought him some nostalgic memories; it was close to where the Lady Vengeance had crashed almost two years ago, allowing him to meet Arx for the first time. A city that he had grown fond of it month after month.

Right in front of Lucian's monument, he found a tall elf — taller than the average — with a dark purplish skin and white long hair. Slowly, the elf turned over his heels and looked at Sandor. His figure was familiar. His eyes were grey, or maybe blue in a paler tone. The roughness in his look, the hard contours of his face, the halo of danger that he emanated, were proof that the man had lived hard times, maybe not far away from the villainy and the chaos that mercenary lifestyle brings. He also displayed several wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and mouth, an unmistakable manifestation that, unlike the usual elves that Sandor had met before, this one had been living for millennia. His look was far from being young, but he was not an elder either. It was the first time that he saw a mature elf. A real one. Lysanthir was an old elf as well, but certainly he still needed to live a couple of millennia more to match this one. 

“Ah. The greatest healer of Arx has come.” The man said, his voice was soft and calming. 

Sandor remained serious, wary, “Did you send me this?” He waved the small piece of paper. 

“I did.”

“Well, here I am. What do you need to say?”

The elf walked around, observing the sky. “Many things have changed in this new, dark world,” his sight fell on the ground, and then he observed Sandor, eyes dried of any emotion despite the soft smile curving his lips. “I've changed, too.”

Sandor frowned. “It would be hard for me to notice. I've never seen you before.”

“Ah. Indeed.” He walked slowly toward him, making their height difference bigger and bigger with each step. When the elf finally stood in front of him, Sandor had to lift his chin and look up. The elf's permanent smile became broader, this time showing his teeth and a couple of unusual long fangs. “You are cute. I knew once a... _ friend _, who loved cute things. If you were an elf, you would be his type, I think.”

Uncomfortable for the strange tone, Sandor crossed his arms. “Did you bring me here to tell me that?”

The elf crouched, letting Sandor look down at him. A friendly, yet confusing gesture. 

“No. I didn't. I brought you here because I'm scared of these powers.” The elf extended his hand and a flickering Source flame appeared on his palm. “This is what has changed in me.”

Relieved, Sandor sighed. _ So this is what it was all about. _ “I understand. If you need training, you can be taught in the barracks. They are all willing to-”

“No. I don't want to fight. I'm scared.” The elf lowered his face. His long silver hair fell to both sides of his face, as his shoulders slouched. The figure of the lost and the surrender. “I saw my lands being destroyed by the _ Deathfog _. Even though it was painful, I moved on, finding a small tribe in the North. But the Voidwoken had taken everything. I'm all that remains of them. Memories are... so painful.”

Sandor crouched as well, placing his hand on the elf's shoulder. “I'm sorry for your loss. There is nothing I can do or say to soothe it. But you can go to the Academy. There, you will find people who will help you to control this new power of yours. The clinic is almost complete too. If you want to put in good use your Source without fighting, you can always help there. And even if Arx is not full of elves, there are many of your kind that live in the city and nearby... maybe... you can start over again here. Arx is a city of new beginnings.”

The elf smiled and looked up, staring at Sandor, dearly. “Would I have permission to do that?”

“Yes, of course.”

Confident, the elf smiled and stood up once again. “Thank you, Great Healer. I'll be there tomorrow. Wait for me.”

* * *

Despite the recent attacks of fanatics, the cathedral was already working as a complete Academy and the Clinic was fully functional. Both institutions increased their reputation across the world and became a point of interest in Arx. Healers, scholars, and sick people all around Rivellon made their way to Arx, seeking healing or new methods for providing it, while scholars, eager to find a new place after their towns were swarmed by Voidwoken, came frequently asking for a free position in the academy. 

There was no more interest in Lucian's tomb, so the precarious settlements around the city made time ago by pilgrims, were now used in the expansion of the slum. The Secret Corner was now leading that expansion on land, building not only more rooms but a whole new inn. Arx was changing, as a result of these demanding times.

That morning Sandor went to the clinic and took care of several patients. By the afternoon, the rumour that a creature looking like an empty elf was walking around the Kemm's mansion reached his ears. The widow had called the Guardians for help and they had captured the suspect without violence. Sandor could not give much credit to the story until he saw Ifan at the clinic, followed by one of his recruits and an elven silent monk. 

He could not help but wince at the sight of such a horrified creature. It was the second one in few days.

“Hey, Mestre. We got a problem this morning.” Ifan said getting close to Sandor, but keeping a respectful distance. Far enough to prevent anyone from believing they were lovers. “Er, actually _ two _.”

Sandor blinked, reaching out the elven monk's forearm. This one had a melancholic expression on her face, probably she had been months free of Source shots. 

“I can see one. I can take care of her.” He looked at Ifan, “And thank you.” 

It was not said as pure courtesy, but as a true sentiment of gratefulness. Sandor was quite aware about Ifan's opinion related to these creatures. For the commander, it was always more merciful to kill them than trying to heal them; he considered, despite knowing nothing about medicine, that they were beyond healing. However, going against his own opinion, Ifan had always trusted in Sandor's judgement. Even though, sometimes, he was hesitant about it. 

Ifan was tolerant about Sandor's eagerness to heal something that was beyond solution, but he did not like it. Sometimes he wondered how much of it was a genuine sentiment for healing a person and how much of that was a result of Sandor’s scholar pride. Sandor's stubbornness was not a good omen. He knew it in his guts. 

The black mirror was there, a looming danger despite the thousand times that he told Sandor to forget the artefact. It was going to be the same with the silent monks. At least, this obsession to find the cure of the monks had a fact supporting it; Sandor had truly saved a recently transformed silent monk once, in Paradise Downs. Now that Gregorious Swann(*) was a Guardians too, Sandor, in collaboration with other scholars around Rivellon, were working in recovering those that were sacrificed during the times of the Order. To have a legion of crazy scholars, testing and discussing via war owls their ideas, could increase their chances of success, but so far, the thought had been everything but reassuring for Ifan. 

Ifan's doubts were not only the standard ones related to having unresponsive killing machines lurking around Sandor's studio while he was reading, but ones involving Sandor's ethics too. Ifan had seen it in many scholars before. What started as mere curiosity, it used to grow until changing the scholars into monsters. A slow transformation happening with every experiment done, with every little broken rule. Tarquin was a fine example of it. The lines dividing what was right from what was needed to do in order to expand knowledge tended to be thinner over time. And that was Ifan’s true fear. 

Of course, Sandor had swore him many times that he was not going to end like that, that he had to trust in him, that nothing of that would happen to him, because he had principles. And despite the twitch in his guts and the alarming screams in his mind, Ifan wanted to believe in Sandor. He had to force his mind to stop comparing him with the bad men he met in his past. It was Sandor, not Lucian, after all. He had to trust in him.

But the doubts were always there, latent. They were impossible to be rid off.

“Better dead than enslaved,” Ifan used to repeat when the topic arises. 

“Better endure longer and save a life. Was life not important to you? This is the price for survival.” Sandor used to reply, giving back to him his own words. That was one of the many cons of having a scholar as a friend or a lover: they were memory-gifted people, always too good in remembering words that had no fear to reproduce with their sharp tongues. 

And Ifan could not say anything in front of that argument. Of course he would always choose life over a purposeless death, even though chances to survive could be low. He had no right to take them away from any silent monk. 

That was how they settled the problem. They would take care of any monk that would appear in Arx, developing a treatment that could heal them. But such a goal was neither guaranteed nor clean. The job had dirty connotations, as Sandor realised later. Experiments had to be performed frequently, and they were not common procedures, but _ new _ ones. Although Sandor would do them in an attempt to minimize their consequences, he would never be completely sure of not harming monks in the process. That was why they were called _ experiments. _ Their consequences were always obscured.

How far from Tarquin, Sandor was going to become? The doubts were extremely disturbing, but Ifan kept burying them under that trust he wanted to have. However, deep down, he could not deny it; the fear was always there, cracking the foundations of what and whom he wanted to believe in. 

And, of course, those were not the only complications. There was Sanguinia Tell, who always claimed that the presence of silent monks were a consequence of her imaginary wizard illness. To keep the silent monks in the academy had not made any favour to reduce her ill views on wizards.

“I'll take care of her, thanks.” Sandor gently pushed the monk to the next door where an assistant healer helped him.

“I didn't come here just for that.” Ifan said, a dark inflexion in his tone as a preamble of bad news. He took the young recruit by the shoulder and made him step forward. Sandor observed the young man, a human around his mid twenty, his face washed in shame. 

Curious, Sandor looked at Ifan, who patted the man's back.

“Tell him, lad. It's okay. You did well in trusting me, now trust in him. He will heal you.”

The young man extended his hands and cast Source. Green flames appeared on his palms, and then, as suddenly as they were summoned, they extinshished, as it did the presence of Source in his body.

“He needs rest. He is exhausted.” Sandor said without second thoughts.

“I've been resting for the last two months. The commander thought the same. He gave me time to recover.... But I can't feel my Source replenishing. I feel it died inside me, Mestre.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow and scratched his chin. He cast some Source into the young man but it barely lasted in his body. He inspected his eyes, his mouth, and cast several blessings and curse detection spells, finding nothing. Sandor deepened his frown.

“We did not say anything yet, because it's a matter of time for Sanguinia to start screaming around about her wizard disease.” Ifan added.

Sandor barked a dry laugh. “You bet. She would throw me and Arhu into a dungeon, claiming we are the origin of such a thing.”

He took the man's hand and cast his own Source. Glowing green tendrils spread all over his arms and part of his neck, green mist emanating from his eyes. “Were you a Sourcerer when the gods had not fallen yet?” Sandor asked.

The man slowly shook his head, a bit surprised by the cracking glows on Sandor's skin and his — almost demonic — eyes.

“Have you felt a progressive diminishing of Source lately?”

The young man gave him an affirmative answer. Sandor cut off all the Source casting suddenly and his eyes returned to their normal, sad state, “Well, so far, we don't know what's happening, but you are not alone. Several people have been experiencing a progressive fading of their Source all over Rivellon. We are still researching it.”

“Am... am I going to turn into a creature like those?” 

Sandor did not need to follow the man's eyes to know he meant the silent monk at his back.

“Not at all. Rest assured. They become _ that _ after a long torturing procedure performed by Magisters. To become one of them, you need to be under surgical conditions as well. Don't fret. The worst that can happen to you is to lose all your Source. Which is something you never were born with. So, you'll be back to _ normal. _”

The worried young man looked at Ifan, his frown creased with tortured thoughts. “If I lose my Source, I won't be able to fight, commander?”

“Fighting Voidwoken without Source means to send you to your own death. But don't worry, lad. We can always find you another role. You will protect according to your abilities. For now, just keep on focusing on your training.”

The young man sighed, relieved of such dark fear that was lurking in his mind for a long while. Ifan granted him permission to leave, and when the man left the clinic, Ifan stared at Sandor with questioning eyes. 

“Now, tell me the truth,” Ifan said.

“What I've just said _ is _the truth.”

Ifan frowned. “Is… is that true? People are losing their Source? Just like that?”

“_ Just like that _. For now. Several fellow healers told me so. It's not only here, in Arx. It's all over Rivellon. The only hypothesis we are working with, is that all of them were not Sourcerers before. But I wonder if it's not only a matter of time until this weariness reaches us too.”

“What could this mean?”

“Nobody knows. It could mean nothing. The same nothing that we, Sourcerers, meant in the old world; just _ unusual subjects. _This new world changed what we used to define as normal, not being a Sourcerer is the anomaly now. It’s just an inversion.”

“But… Divinity...”

“Nature follows its own path.”

Ifan remained silent for a moment, thinking about those words before speaking again. “Do you truly believe that?”

Sandor looked aside, his face turning sadder, “It's the easier explanation. Unlike the old world, where Sourcerer were the unusual, powerful, and feared subjects; in this world, what is unusual is a man without powers, but this extraordinary yet _ weak _nature, makes nobody fears them, so nobody cares.” 

“Sandor... You are not answering me.”

With a soft chuckle, Sandor looked straight at Ifan, letting transpire his affection for someone who had managed to know him so well that his usual babbling would not affect his focus. “I believe the reason is something else, more related to the God King and that Veil we didn't fix as Lucian told us...”

Ifan raised an eyebrow. “I'm _ not _ sorry for that. I would have never forgiven you to give all that power to Lucian once again. To perpetuate his endless betrayal.”

“I know. I know… but I wonder if that would have been the best option. To fix the Veil. To renounce Source. All of us.”

“Are you aware that our spirits are made of Source, right?” Ifan said. 

Sandor kept eye contact longer, in silence. Would it have been an option? Would it have ended with a Rivellon filled with silent monks? Would he have accepted turning Ifan into a silent monk? 

Sandor broke the eye contact and winced, “I do. I'm sorry. And yes, probably the best option was the one you picked.” Sandor looked at his back, seeing several of his assistants, and sighed in frustration. He wanted to simply hug Ifan. "See you at night?" 

A chuckle. "As always. Maybe a bit later. Got some training to do, a meeting about tactics with the higher ranks, patrolling the city entrance and only then I’ll go home."

Sandor smiled, seeing him leave the clinic, while the image of Ifan turned into a silent monk remained in his mind. 

* * *

The long day of work at the clinic was over, and before going to his house, Sandor needed to visit the slums once again. He wanted to spread the word that the clinic was fully working now, so now everyone who needed treatment could visit the clinic personally. 

In his path out of the enormous walls of the city, and along the roads towards the docks, Sandor found Ifan. The commander was just finishing his patrolling, so he joined him on his way to the slum. There was always a good excuse at handy for both of them to be seen together; a delicate subject to talk about, a security matter, some strategic planning ahead, a quite particular information that needed further research. Commander and Mestre were always working together, they were the key for the survival of the city. 

While they stepped in the first part of the slum, Ifan appreciated the rate at which the precarious houses were built. The overpopulation was going to be a serious problem in a couple of months. So far, food was enough, and Sandor's clinic was going to keep things free of further complications, but it was just a matter of time for disaster.

“This part was not so crowded last month, was it?” Ifan asked. 

“It is now. New refugees came. A small group of humans from the Northwest.”

“Damn.”

Out of the blue, a young teenager, wearing ragged clothes, stepped in front of Ifan and glared at him, her frown contrasting with the fear in her eyes. 

“Why... why are you here?” she said, voice trembling.

“I'm the Guardian commander.” Ifan said with a smile.

She laughed bitterly, and her lips trembled. "Is this a joke?”

“Do I know you?”

“This ends here.” The girl took a knife from her belt and ran into Ifan, screaming. Without effort, Ifan disarmed the girl and made her trip with his leg. She fell on the ground, and glared at him. The fury turned into poison into a barely contained gesture of cry, to end in disbelief. 

She shook her head. “You don't even have the decency to remember me.”

Ifan looked at Sandor, who simply shrugged. “Care to refresh my mind?” He said to the girl.

“You killed my father. Just for money, just because an angry asshole paid you. You also killed my mother, because since that day papa died, she never stopped crying. She died from sadness. I've been alone all this time. And it's your fault. I wanted to find you, to stab you, seeing you crawl in a hole of mud, dying slowly. But no. Instead, I found you as the Commander of the city who gave me shelter. This is how the world ends, placing monsters to protect us..." she looked down, rubbing her face, as some rebel tears fell along her cheeks.

Ifan moved his lips in a mute _ damn it _. He looked at the girl. She had a nasty scar on her left side. What the hell had he done? 

"I roamed for years. Starving. You turned my life into a hell. And now... you.. are a fucking _ commander?" _

Sandor, by Ifan side, just looked down, silent, somehow being hit by those words too. 

Sniffing, the girl stood on her feet once again and tightened her hands in fists. Ifan shook his head, looking at her without defiance. 

"Speak, you bastard!" She punched Ifan's chest, but he did not dodge it. 

"What can I say? Anything will be meaningless."

She hit him several times. "Is that all? just you, looking so proud. Fucking Silver Claw."

She aimed at his face and punched him hard enough to make his lips bleed. She moaned at the impact, her fingers in pain. When she saw the blood in her knuckles, she recoiled, full of fear. But far from desiring retribution, Ifan took his small bag of money from his belt and threw it to her feet. 

She looked at it, frowning, and then to the mercenary, surprised. "Now are you going to kill me telling everyone I stole from you?"

"Keep it. Stop doing whatever you are doing to survive. If you need help, for anything, talk to him," Ifan tilted his head at Sandor’s direction, who nodded. "He works in the Academy, inside the city. He will give you all that you need. Don't need to look at my face never again." 

And with those words, wiping out the blood from his lips, Ifan turned over his heel and looked at Sandor, “I'll wait for you outside,” and then he simply walked away. 

She was shocked at the intensity of all the emotions she handled before the great killer of Rivellon, nothing more nor less than the Silver Claw. She looked at Sandor, up and down, wondering about the relationship that man had with that bastard. For her, it was crystal clear that the short man in robes was not part of the Lone Wolves. 

"He’s going to kill me, right?"

"No. Despite the fact that you see his figure there, I assure you that Silver Claw died a long time ago. But what has been done can't be undone, and he knows it.” Sandor knelt before the girl, took the bag of money and offered to her, “Let me give you a piece of advice. Accept this, and escape from the hole you are trapped. If you can't, tell me. We can manage that. Accept this and move on. Nothing else will change."

She grabbed the bag violently, "I'm not gonna forgive that son of the-"

"There is no need for forgiveness. Keep that anger if that gives you enough strength, but move on."

Sandor inspected her face and slowly extended his hand. The scar was an actual wound, recently made. He placed his fingertips softly on her cheek and healed it. 

She blinked, "You are a healer... why are you with him? how can a healer be a friend of that monster?"

Sandor swallowed hard. It was completely _ impossible _ to make her understand their side, as it was impossible to fully understand hers. He stood up and sighed. "It’s too, too complicated. If you need anything else, find me in the Academy. Consider this as a... compensation for so much pain. It will never place all what you lost and lived under the rug. But it's _ something. _ Use it wisely, and thank no one for the crumbles that those that hurt you give you now."

Sandor continued his path to some family houses he needed to visit, leaving the confused girl behind. 

When the news about the Clinic was spread all over the slum, Sandor returned. Reaching Arx entrance, he found Ifan lying on the grass, looking at the sky. He went closer, towering over him, to interrupt his line of sight. 

“Wanna go home?” Ifan asked. 

“Sure, it's too late.”

With a quick movement, Ifan stood up and by Sandor's side, they walked together. They remained silent all their way back. Their steps were the only sounds that could be heard in the middle of the night. It was too late for anyone to notice their presence in the streets. No witnesses were going to see them enter the Mestre's house. And even if that was the case, they always have handy excuses. The benefits of being Commander and Mestre of the city. 

They took a bath and ate, and once they were in bed, looking at the ceiling, they noticed that none of them had spoken since they had entered the house. Worried by that taciturn behaviour, illuminated by soft candles, Sandor sat on the bed and caressed Ifan's head. He left a kiss on his forehead. "It's the past, Ifan."

"I know. Still... it can't be undone. And it has ruined so many, _ many _ lives. Forty three at the least. Double that number if we consider their children." A torturous sigh escaped from his lips. “How can a lost man make so many mistakes?”

“The Silver Claw is dead. You are now _ the Hound _.”

Ifan smiled at the sound of that title. He liked that new nickname that people had started to spread since he got his commander position. The _ Arx's hound _, a beast protecting the city, a tamed wolf. Something he never thought it could be possible. 

As the train of thoughts continued, his smile vanished. “I'm afraid that bad habits die hard. You can't change a wolf.”

“Were you a wolf in the first place when you were a crusader? Or you simply turned into one later?”

Ifan looked at him intensely and hid his face in Sandor's waist, hugging him. Sandor caressed his long hair, combing his long strands behind his ear. The grey hair were the most rebel ones.

“It could have been you, that girl.” Ifan's words came muffled, “Tell me Sandy, what would you have done if you knew about your tutor before... we... before escaping Fort Joy?”

“I don't know.”

“Wouldn't you hate the killer that took your tutor from you?”

“The bound was not... strong enough or... reciprocated. That makes things different in comparison with that girl.”

“Still... didn't you feel bad, at least once, for sharing a bed with your tutor's killer?”

Wincing, Sandor remained silent, hurt by those blunt words. For a moment, he felt extremely dirty. That dark and latent sentiment, always ready to wrap him, spread all over his soul, engulfing him. His body tensed as some memories came to him, and a whisper from the past kept repeating to him he was an unworthy whore. 

“Damn, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to be so... harsh. I'm... I'm... I'm not fair.” Ifan said. 

The wrap around his waist became tighter as Ifan rubbed his cheek against it. With an elegant movement of his wrist, Sandor extinguished the candles and slid into the bed, allowing Ifan to hide his face in his chest, squeezing him in contempt for himself. Ifan was desperate to feel something else but shame and self-loathing. 

“People change, Ifan. You have changed. Many times. It's fine.”

The tension in Ifan's body was going to prevent him from sleeping. As a healer, that was easy for Sandor to sense. 

Among caresses and kisses on his head, he massaged those tense shoulders but their positions did not help it. Slowly pushing him, Sandor guided Ifan to turn around and rest on his side, giving to him his bare back. He cast a warmth spell on his hands and sprayed them on his scarred skin. Ifan moaned.

That low sound made Sandor self-conscious. Suddenly, he became aware of how many attempts to reach that kind of intimacy had failed since he met Ifan. Those years in Arx did not solve it either. Despite their mutual promise to never force the situation against their own comfort, Sandor could not help but feel the pressure in the back of his mind.

Maybe now, knowing that Ifan was feeling more vulnerable than usual and could use some kind of sensual comfort, Sandor could provide it. He hated the thought that Ifan could always resort to _ that _elf to feel it. The danger of it ended up forcing Sandor to find the courage to step forward from his limits. 

Would he be able to? Sandor wondered, as he used to wonder when this kind of idea crossed his mind. The desire to be desired. The pleasure in being pleasurable. The selfish coward reward of giving everything, for a moment, to Ifan. 

Sandor sighed while observing Ifan's nape in the penumbra. His long hair was spread on the pillow, and his broad tense back had a calm movement with each breathing. Insecurities running deep, Sandor placed his fingertips full of electric sparks on that back and caressed it, sensing his heavily textured skin. The touch intensified Ifan's moans, who smiled against the pillow while the gentle touch was going up and down, dissolving any knot of tension. 

Ifan heard a heavy sigh, and then, the hand that had been caressing his back sneaked under his waist, warmer due to a spell. Some of Ifan's muscles twitched as a consequence of the intimate touch instead of releasing their tension. 

At the same time, his hair was arranged to a side, completely uncovering his nape. Ifan thought that Sandor was preparing the zone for another massage, but he was delightfully surprised when Sandor's lip landed there, running down along his neck and licked his shoulder. 

“Sandy.” 

His voice was several tones down, husky and intense. For Ifan, licking was the most intimate and raw desire to know a person, to take and give everything to them. It was the bare manifestation of becoming one with them, no matter how useless such a tongue could be.

Sandor nipped his neck, getting closer to his back, sliding his hand from Ifan’s belly up to his chest, wrapping his body. The same treatment that Ifan received on his back was done on his chest, warm intense hands releasing every tension in his muscles.

The bed was starting to feel hotter, and his body, surrendered to Sandor's touch, was looking for more pressure against him. In the same sneaky way, Sandor's hand lowered far beyond Ifan's belly and slid into his underwear. Taken aback, Ifan arched his back against him, as a mixture of a sigh and a moan escaped from his throat. 

The intensity of the moment also affected Sandor who stopped short. He simply froze in that position, as if something else had tainted his mind and a wave of anxiety struck him. But without letting it control him, he resumed the movement, lowering Ifan's pants to work more easily on his half-erection.

The touch that had been so sensual and gentle all over Ifan's body became hesitant. His fingertips could not leave the base of Ifan's erection, pressing the zone more out of nervousness than stimulation. After a long sigh, as if Sandor would have gathered enough courage, he closed his hand around Ifan's sex and remained motionless for a moment. Ifan's whole body tensed, thirsty of expectation. To calm him down, as well as calm himself, Sandor kept kissing and biting Ifan's neck, as his hand, slowly, cast a thin layer of oily water and moved along Ifan’s length. 

Heavy breathing and long sustained hums kept escaping from Ifan's lips, as he pressed his back against Sandor's chest. Ifan was not going to complain, but he preferred a closer intimacy involving more skin, less cloth, and if possible, looking at his lover's face. His skin was thirsty for Sandor's own. 

The hand movement started to increase, as it increased Ifan's breathing. Desperate for that contact he was not getting, Ifan pushed his arm behind him, grabbing Sandor's thigh and guiding him to put it over his own, but after a moment, that contact was not enough either. He was feeling disappointed and annoyed, because he needed more. He wanted more. 

“Sandy, can I turn around?” Ifan said, his voice full of lust deepening its natural tone. 

Without a verbal answer, Sandor separated from him and waited for Ifan to turn over. Ifan's hands reached for Sandor's cheeks, and gently pulling, he kissed him hungrily. This was what he needed at that moment, a deep wet hungry kiss.

Still hesitant, now more than before, Sandor slid both hands under the blankets and surrounded Ifan's length, pressing its base with one while sliding the other along it. He cast more thin layers of oily warm water in his palms, to make the experience smoother. Ifan moaned louder, a low cry proper of those who surrender to something too big for them to control, while pressing his forehead against Sandor's, whispering his name over and over between hot ragged gaspings and kisses that increased his pleasure. 

Looking for a way to remunerate the sensations, Ifan caressed Sandor's waist and sneaked into his pants too. He touched a flaccid member that seemed not to acknowledge the kind of situation they were in. The touch disgusted Sandor so much that he recoiled, releasing Ifan and looking at him like a fawn does before his hunter. 

Ifan hated himself for such a false move. He tried to speak, panting, “I'm sorry-, I-, I thought... we... Damn. Sorry.”

Sandor blinked several times, lips pressed in a thin line, and spoke just after controlling some sudden tears that made his eyes glint. “No. It's okay. I just... just let me do this to you. I don't want to be touched now.”

Worried, Ifan sighed. “Are you sure to continue? We can simply stop.”

Sandor nodded, deeply kissing him. “Leave your hands on my face. Always.”

“I'll try,” Ifan smiled, thumbing Sandor's red lips, knowing that sometimes he was too carried away to notice the movement of his own body drunk in pleasure. 

With a sigh of encouragement, Sandor resumed once again his work in Ifan's hardness, now casting the slightest electric current he could while Ifan, sinking deeper into his own pleasure, kept moaning and kissing him in a desperate way. His body got closer, and his hands splayed on Sandor's back, pulling him. _ Closer _ , he wanted to be _ closer _ and _ closer. _ He wanted Sandor inside him.

Sandor did not mind the roughness of Ifan's fingers on his back. There was something rewarding in feeling their pressure every time he made that man writhe with his small sensual spells. It was a secret victory over that threatening elf. 

Soon after, Sandor finally saw those fine lines of Source cracking under Ifan's skin, glowing, getting more intense as the climax approached. The most intimate mark of any Sourcerer. 

He increased the intensity of the touch and the amount of electricity in his fingertips, so Ifan started to move against his own will, begging for pleasure in a storm of lust and love, unable to decide whether to moan louder or kiss him or simply bury his face in Sandor's neck, until pleasure reached his highest peak, and his come spread. He remained quiet for a while, panting, still hugging Sandor tightly, pulling him dearly. 

Sandor smiled, proud of accomplishing that intensity, but his gesture faded when he became conscious that his hands — still under the blanket — were sticky and some humidity had also spread on his own thighs. He closed his eyes, trying to contain the sudden revulsion raised in his gut, and simply paralysed while Ifan recovered. 

“I really needed that,” Ifan whispered. After a long sigh, and a silly smile curving his lips, Ifan released the tension of his grip and caressed Sandor's cheek trying to kiss him gently. But he only saw Sandor wincing. “Sandy, are you okay?”

Opening his eyes, Sandor whispered, “I need to clean.”

Surprised, Ifan gave him space to sit in the bed and watch his hands. With his forehead creased in repulsion, Sandor observed his fingers which were notoriously trembling. There was nothing in them, just a thin layer of stickiness that, twisted by his memories, had acquired colossal proportions. He felt so dirty that he could only see his hands and thigh, unable to talk or move. 

Realising what was happening, Ifan quickly took a shirt placed on the bed and used it to cover Sandor's hands, cleaning them diligently. He even used a glass of water that was always beside their bed, and poured a bit of it on those trembling hands, cleaning them with care. He did the same with the small drops that had stained Sandor's pants. He took advantage of that situation to see Sandor's groin and confirm, once again, what he had touched earlier; a complete flaccid member after all that shared intensity. He was confused but said nothing. It was not the moment for that.

This kind of intimacy was never going to be easy for them, especially when Sandor was completely secretive about it. That was what frustrated Ifan the most; the lack of will to talk about this. 

“There it is. You are as clean as just bathed.” Ifan said, dropping his shirt on the ground and wrapping Sandor in the blankets to pull him against him so both of them slid into the bed again. 

“I'm so sorry...” Sandor whispered. 

Tormented by that sad tone, Ifan looked at him, “That was really good, why are you saying that?”

“I'm so sorry I can't be normal. I try... but I can't.” Sandor hid his face in Ifan's neck, ashamed. He wanted to give comfort and in the end, it turned the other way around. He hugged him, part of his fingers digging on Ifan's bare skin. 

“One step at a time, dear. One step.” Ifan softly said in his ear, running his finger along Sandor's hair and leaving a peck on his ear. 

They certainly were broken souls that had the strange luck of finding each other in the most unusual conditions. There was so much to be grateful despite the scars and cracks, but still... 

  
  


* * *

* * *

**NOTES:**  
  


(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .   
  


**Sanders, Toyseller** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3832)]: Also known as Toyseller Sanders. Engineer from Divinity Original Sin 2, he was once part of the group that designed the Tomb of Lucian and the Path of Blood. Due to the natural confusion it may produce his name and Sandor's, I will use the form "Engineer Sanders" from now on to make clear the difference.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

The first thing he heard early in the morning were the birds. Swearing at himself for not having made his windows soundproof, Sandor sighed miserably and turned over in his bed. It was a lazy morning, one of the few that he allowed himself to have rarely. One that Ifan imposed on him to have after seeing him too exhausted during the last days. 

His frustration for not finding the cure of the silent monk condition was often released by focussing too much on that miraculous elven spell lost in time. However, working on that secondary obsession had turned him into a hollow body without energy. It was only natural, taking into account that both tasks were extremely Source demanding, so he only added more frustration to his already frustrated life when the growth spell did not give the results he wanted. During those days, the only reward he was obtaining was an extreme tiredness. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his back against his partner’s chest. Ifan, who was still sleepy, slid an arm around his waist. At least that warmth could ease his frustration a little bit. 

The birds kept singing outside, slowly awakening Ifan. He hummed at the proximity and slid his hand further, surrounding Sandor's belly. Still half-sleepy, he noted how softer Sandor had become since they settled down in Arx.

Unlike their time chasing after Dallis, Sandor's muscles had turned lazy and his belly fat had grown. No wonder why. The man was all day sitting in a chair, reading, barely walking some streets back to his house every day. Ifan was worried. It had nothing to do with aesthetics but with survivability. 

He had been noticing Sandor's exhaustion on a daily basis. Whatever he was doing in the academy was putting him everyday off his limits, filling his body with intense Source ashes. 

Voidwoken were unpredictable creatures, and a potential brutal attack to the city was only a matter of time. If that battle was going to happen soon, Sandor could not fight back with that excess of accumulated exhaustion. And  _ that  _ was Ifan’s primary worry. 

Sandor's physique had been neglected, becoming slower and less resilient to fatigue, whether it was magical or physical. His lack of strong muscles was going to be a hindrance if he had to face a situation in which his life depended on fighting or fleeing. 

He also knew that Sandor detested training. The wizard was convinced that Source was his main means to defend himself, and physical training was a mere waste of time. Ifan tightened the embrace, conflicted. 

But deep down, he knew what he was talking about. A good physical state was always, no matter the situation, the small advantage that could determine survival or death. His own body was proof of it. Source burnt, collared, bleeding to death, smashed. No matter the state in which he had been, he had survived thanks to his body giving a little extra more of its own limits. Sure, the dozens of scars along his body were also proof of how many times he had been living in that limit. But it was fair, surviving always implied a price to pay; staying alive it was all what mattered. 

And he wanted to cultivate that ability in Sandor. For Sandor's sake and for  _ himself _ . Because losing him, somehow, seemed to be the only thing that his own physique and mind would never survive. 

He pressed fingers against Sandor's abs, looking for muscles. He knew that fat placed there was a good resource to have when food was scarce, but under it he had to find muscle, ready to tense and work beyond its limits in order to survive. He ran his fingers up on Sandor's chest, inspecting his pectorals, his lats, his neck muscles. Everywhere was so soft. 

“What are you doing?” Sandor lazily whispered, frowning in curiosity. Those touches were anything but sensual.

_ Checking how all that work that Sebille and I did with you went to hell. _ He wanted to answer. But he simply kissed Sandor's nape. 

Languorous, Sandor turned around, facing Ifan. He scratched Ifan's beard and left a peck in his lips. Now Ifan could press his hands under Sandor's bed shirt, testing his back muscles. He could only find bones and softness. Sandor's shoulders, which time ago had developed strength as a consequence of the heavy bags full of books he used to carry, had also lost their hardness. 

Both of them stared at each other for a while and then, Sandor buried his face in Ifan's chest, putting aside his necklaces. He mirrored Ifan's hands, inspecting Ifan's back with his fingers until he became bored and ran them down to grab Ifan's rear with a firm movement. Ifan laughed. He kissed Sandor's head, scratching his nape softly. A soft hum came out from the wizard. Ifan loved that sound of calm and laziness.

“I was thinking...” Ifan started with a low tone, his breath on Sandor's head, “...now that we put most things in their right place; the clinic is running and the academy has enough crazy people to work on their own...”

Sandor chuckled, his words came out muffled against Ifan's chest, “Says a  _ normal _ man.”

“I don't seek around collecting all the Gheists or silent monks in the world-”

Sandor drew back, slightly frowning at him, “Ifan.”

Ifan thumbed Sandor's lips, “Now, now, my point is... you can have a bit of free time, right?”

Sandor's eyes blinked a couple of times, then he smiled. The idea of sharing private and quality time together, without faking a distance between them to avoid the retribution that Sanguinia Tell could take, was an extremely appealing idea. 

Like a hunter who enjoys the previous seconds before the cage falls onto his prey, Ifan wetted his lips, savouring his imminent victory. He loved to trick his victim. “So, what would you say if you can spare three or four days a week, two hours each, as a free time?” His voice became huskier, seductive. “Do you think it is possible?” 

Sandor looked at his green eyes first, then at his lips. “Absolutely. It's not a problem, especially after working in the academy. Every evening, then?”

_ Gotcha _ . 

“Then it's settled. Three days a week, two hours after the end of your day of work, in the evening,  _ at the barracks _ . Starting today.”

Sandor drew back and frowned. “What?”

Now the second part of the ruse started. This stage needed more effort, because he was treating with a person obsessed with reason, “You are now a Mestre of Knowledge in the Arx City, and  _ that _ doesn't make you immune to Voidwoken attacks, or renegade Magisters, or Black Ring members-”

“What!? Black Ring's activity is almost zero.  _ You _ told me there is no sign of their movements.” He poked Ifan's chest with his index finger, all high and mighty, “Renegades and god-fanatics are not a  _ real _ threat. Why do we have a defence system otherwise? Why do we have  _ you _ ?” Ifan rolled his eyes but said nothing, “And about Voidwoken... I defeated them with magic before.  _ Always. _ I still can defeat them-”

“Yes, yes. But you have been depleted all these days.”

“What?” Sandor pretended ignorance but he knew he was not going to win on that point. 

“C'mon, Sandor. I've been sensing your Source levels all these days. Not a hint of Source in your body every night.”

“I've been performing-”

Ifan put his fingers on Sandor’s lips, interrupting his words. “Whatever. The reality is that you can't defeat a shit with that level of tiredness.”

“And fighting with a chackram will make a difference?”

“It can. And you know it. Besides-” Ifan smirked. He loved to use Sandor's own words against him; it was a small, humble revenge that he could take against all the scholars in the world, “-you always told me that physical training gave you stability and resilience, so you could deal much better with your magical depletion. Tell me you lied to me.”

Sandor sighed irritated, burying his head onto the pillow. He emphasised his annoyance with a deep, guttural sound, almost a grunt. Then, he frowned at Ifan, pouting. 

It was in those moments that Ifan used his most valuable resource against Sandor, and also, his most bare truth.  _ “Dear, _ it's not like I enjoy torturing you with a training I know you hate. I do it because I want you to survive. We are not living in a peaceful world. I need  _ you _ to survive.  _ No matter the cost _ .”

Sandor's gesture softened. He looked down at Ifan's necklaces spread on the pillow, specially at the one with the ring, reminding him that surviving meant more than self-preservation. He sighed, this time full of resignation. 

“I know, I know,” He said and hid his face in Ifan's chest, defeated, knowing that Ifan had the best intentions after all. 

That day, later on, when the threat of rain seemed to be unavoidable at the sight of thick dark clouds in the sky, Ifan dismissed his recruits, finishing the day of practice. It was just in time. Immediately after that order, Sandor walked across the barrack's entrance. 

Ifan received him with a big smile while Sandor, resigned, moved his hand with apathy in a greeting that had everything but cheer. “Here I am, ready, waiting for my torture to begin.” Sandor said.

Ifan tilted his head, looking at him up and down, “Ready? With that?” 

Sandor was wearing one of his thick layered robes quite common in the Balurik Isle. It probably added around four kilos to Sandor's weight. They were heavy, with several layers of different material and embroidery with small gems that decorated them with excess. Ornamental and heavy, they were clearly not suitable for training. 

Squatting before the wizard, Ifan lifted the lowest part of the outfit and realised that under that pompous robe, he was wearing his typical farmer pants and soft leather shoes. Still knelt, Ifan raised an eyebrow and looked up at Sandor, who averting his eyes, never abandoning his apathetic mood, shrugged. 

“Are you expecting me to walk the streets wearing those... rags? I'm a  _ Mestre _ .” 

Shaking his head, Ifan laughed. He stood up and patted Sandor's back, gently pushing him into the barracks. They headed to a covered space for practice. It was a good idea to train protected from the eventual rain. Besides, Ifan wanted a bit of privacy. 

Lysanthir and DeSelby had considered that it was a waste to train with a wizard without the rest of the recruits observing it, learning from it. As an excuse, and certainly not much far away from the truth, Ifan explained to them that he did not want to abuse Sandor's insecurities in his fighting skills when it came to physical combat. Sandor was a terrible close-range fighter, and this training would only turn him into a laughingstock among the recruits, adding more suspicion — thanks to Sanguinia Tell — to his already questioned reputation as a useful wizard. 

Neither DeSelby nor Lysanthir could protest. Sanguinia Tell was all the time spreading ill comments about the city wizards, being Sandor the easiest target due to his constant interaction with people as a healer. She had convinced the highest classes living in Arx about her crazy ideas; they did not want to encourage more of them that would make Sandor's life more complicated than it already was .

At the end of the long corridor, an enormous room with high walls and dark corners gave them privacy and space to train. Still in his apathetic mood, Sandor removed his robe, displaying his loosen shirt under it. Now,  _ that _ was a proper outfit for combat. 

Without shame, Ifan looked at him up and down, enjoying that plain outfit that he usually saw him wearing in their home. Ifan realised that, probably, that outfit and the sense of privacy that this room gave them was going to work against him, making it more difficult to keep their fake distance. He moved his head both sides and some cracking sounds gave him instant relief; he told himself that he was accepting the challenge. He only had to focus on training Sandor. 

The first part of the training started with a review of all what Sandor had learnt a year ago. It had been mostly Sebille's lessons, focused on rogue-like attacks. Part of those techniques could be used against Voidwoken, so Ifan refreshed them to Sandor, emphasizing the importance of adding new ones, eventually. Voidwoken were nothing alike rogues. 

Sandor's body memory seemed to work just fine. Although the defence techniques were quite rusty, and his speed was lame, the technique of the movements was there. Ifan smiled satisfied after the first test. 

“Well, let's see how you do with these.” Ifan said, wielding a wooden sword and a shield. 

“Voidwoken with a shield? Seriously?”

Ifan sighed. “I'm not going to jump from defence-against-rogues training to combat-against-Voidowoken in a single day. You need to increase the challenge slowly. And no use of magic, you heard me?”

Sandor grunted in disgust, moving his shoulder with a wince. His body was full of Source ashes, but that was exactly what Ifan wanted. Force him to endure the training with that damned pain in every fibre of his body. Resigned, tightly gripping his chakrams, he attacked him.

Two movements and Sandor already had the wooden sword on his neck. 

_ Once more.  _

He had to change strategy, maybe. Sandor tried to keep the fight at medium range, the best range for him considering his profound flaws in the short distance. He threw the chackrans as soon as Ifan ran towards him, but with a simple movement of his Shield, Ifan captured them on its wooden surface. Stopped short, Ifan turned over his shield and saw Sandor’s weapons stuck on it. With raised eyebrows, he looked at the wizard. 

“This is the fastest way to be a goner,” Ifan said.

Sandor grunted, walking heavily toward him, and pulled out his weapons from the shield with a soft frown.

“C'mon, Sandor. Don't be grumpy.”

Sandor grunted again.

_ One more time.  _

Passive, Sandor observed Ifan, as the man walked around him, his shield up and his sword behind it. The man was looking for some open entrance in Sandor's defence. Annoyed, Sandor stopped looking at him and gave him his back. Not sure if this was strategy or Sandor being grumpier, Ifan ran against his back with the shield in front of him. As soon as he was almost going to jump against the wizard, Sandor spun on the spot, having complete access for a fraction of a second to Ifan's ribs. Confident, Sandor used his chrackram, trying to hit that spot, but his speed had been too affected by all those years of desk work. Always quicker, Ifan moved his shield to make the weapons stuck again on its surface. However, this time, Sandor used the stuck chackrams as handles and removed the shield from Ifan's hands, throwing it far away with his weapons on it. 

Sandor smirked. That had been good work, but Sandor was now defenceless, and Ifan still had a wooden sword. 

Before Ifan could decide how to attack, Sandor slid to his side and jumped on his back. With his forearm around Ifan’s neck and his legs locked around his waist, Sandor tried to immobilise the man. Ifan remained still, feeling the effort that the wizard’s body was doing in order to imprint some strength on his grip and suffocate him, but it was clearly that the Source ashes were working against him. It was barely a tight hug. Ifan chuckled.

That laughter was the last straw. Annoyed, Sandor cast an electric shock on Ifan’s ribs, forcing the confident man, stunned, to release his sword. Both of them fell on the ground. 

“Damn it, Sandor. No magic, we agreed.”

“Laugh now,  _ Commander.” _ He whispered. Although his grip was still weak, the soft current of electricity was responsible for suffocating Ifan and making his limbs unresponsive.

“You, cheater.” Ifan snarled, and with a fast movement he jumped up, violently inclining his body forward to catapult Sandor over his own head. In an attempt to control the situation, Sandor released a second shock of electricity. Ifan endured it and twisted his flexible body with the intention to slam Sandor's back against the ground with all his strength. Scared, eyes closed tightly, Sandor squeaked at the expectation of his back being smashed but the pain never came.

Ifan absorbed all the impulse of Sandor's body with his strong arms and made him lay on the ground softly. When Sandor opened his eyes again, he saw Ifan knelt by his side, chuckling over him. 

“Good work there, good work. But you cheated. Now, no magic,  _ Mestre _ .” 

Sandor grunted. 

_ Once more.  _

This time Sandor tried a closer approach. Using his chakrams like daggers, he kept parrying Ifan's sword. He wanted him to stay focused on his front. He kicked Ifan's shield several times, to test his grip and at the same time, confuse him. The man was wondering what the wizard's next movement would be. 

When Sandor kicked Ifan’s shield for the last time, he threw one of his chakrams to the air, using both hands with the one he kept. Swaying it like an axe, he delivered a blow up down that was meant to hit Ifan's shoulder. Quick as usual, the veteran countered the movement with his shield, barely noticing that from behind, the other chackram was flying back to him, aiming straight to his back.  _ Good one there. _

Ifan swirled, giving his back to Sandor for an instant, time enough to use the shield to block the flying chackram, and returned to his previous position in front of Sandor who tried to repeat the same technique. Grabbing his chackram stuck on the shield surface, he wanted to force Ifan to drop his shield. 

However, that was useless. He could not use the same trick twice. Ifan took advantage of that movement to spin with it, dragging Sandor along. The movement threw the wizard away, who stopped the impulse with his legs sliding backwards on the ground, almost without balance. 

Although Sandor could avoid the fall, he did not see the counter-attack coming. Ifan had already jumped against him, ready to bash him with his shield. Both of them fell on the ground. Sandor's back hit heavily against the ground, the shield compressing his chest and removing the air from his lungs, and on the top of it, Ifan's dead weight and knees immobilized him. 

Despite the pain, the suffocation caused by such weight agitated Sandor. He closed his eyes tight, paralysed, and violent cracks of Source spread all over his skin instantly. The amount of Source that Ifan felt in a second scared him. Sandor had been depleted for several days after the intensity with which he had been working lately in the academy. Being full of Source in an instant was terrible bad news. However, Sandor could control the blast out of fear. If he were not so tired and sore by Source ashes, he probably would have blasted right there.

Acknowledging his mistake, Ifan moved aside, freeing Sandor from his weight and removed the shield. Worried, he touched the wizard's chest, rubbing it up and down to soothe him. “Damn. Sorry, Sandor. Got carried away. Breath in, calm.” 

Knelt by his side, Ifan helped Sandor to, at least, sit on the ground as his Source cracks receded. Still affected, Sandor rubbed his face, trying to erase the disgusting feelings twitching his stomach. Ifan's friendly pat on his shoulder helped him a bit. 

“That's the commander. Always taking advantage of you.”

Both of them looked at the intruder who carelessly walked across the room, throwing his enchanted axes up into the air. After twirling several times and leaving a magical wake along their movement, they fell again in his palms. Lysanthir curved his lips in a wicked smile.

Sandor faked a smile, forcing himself to recover faster than usual. “Well, he is teaching me wisely. I think the one who is taking advantage of him is me.”

Lysanthir scoffed. “Once you know the commander's weak points, he is easy to pin down and force him to beg you to stop.”

Ifan tilted his head. He hated that way of speaking that Lysanthir used sometimes. It was going to make things complicated one of these days, especially with Sanguina Tell. 

“Let the Mestre recover his breath. Train with me,  _ Commander.” _ Lysanthir said the last word with sensuality. Sandor frowned, uncomfortable, but took advantage of the offer walking away from the practice area and sitting against a wall to observe the incoming fight. 

Ifan and Lysanthir sparred for a long time. When their bodies were too close, Lysanthir dared to look at Sandor, sharing a knowing smile at him. It was a gesture whose meaning was hard to decipher, like every gesture coming from that cryptic elf. 

That wicked smile seemed to scream  _ I know everything _ , but at the same time seemed to be a silent complicity gesture between two scholars that were taking a friendly revenge against the commander. Maybe it was a gesture to share the satisfaction of recovering their honour as scholars, always at the receiving end of Ifan’s mockeries. Or it could be an evil gesture, a smile full of resentment that pretended to be friendly just to betray in the least expected moment. After each of those strange looks and smiles, Lysanthir would take advantage of Ifan, throwing him against a wall or simply pinioning him to the ground. Sandor had no idea what to think about. 

In one of those opportunities in which Lysanthir controlled the flow of the sparring, he fell with all his weight on Ifan's back, whose chest and face were compressed against the ground, arms tightly twisted behind him. To emphasise his dominance, the elf pushed his axe against the commander's nape while his legs immobilised Ifan's thighs preventing him from standing up in one jump. 

Unable to remove the sexual context that such a position produced, Sandor squinted at the elf. He was jealous. Out of the blue, he was extremely irritated by that elf, by his skills, by his obscene showing-off, by the way he could dominate someone so tough like Ifan, by the ease in which he moved himself, by his highly sensual behaviour, by his bark-like skin. The list could continue for hours.  _ Ugh. _

However, before Sandor could finish his train of thoughts, he witnessed, once again, Ifan's unique ability to overcome every disadvantageous situation. Out of nowhere, Lysanthir was strongly hit on his ribs by Afrit and rolled on the ground, his body smacked against the wall. That was all what Ifan needed. Leaping with his shield at the ready, he pushed Lysanthir against the wall and pressed his wooden sword on Lysanthir’s throat. 

The elf laughed and then looked at Sandor. “You see? Unlike the words he loves to repeat, Magic is what makes the difference at the end of the day.” Then he stared at Ifan, his face too close to his. “Right?” He said in a softer tone.

“Stop saying crap, fancy pants, and accept your defeat,” Ifan said, releasing Lysanthir of his grip. 

“Summoning your wolf proves me right.” Lysanthir looked again at Sandor, “No?”

Sandor could not restrain his chuckle. It was good to see Ifan being kicked in a friendly way by an ex scholar. And mainly, it was glorious to see that damned elf being kicked as well.

That evening, when Ifan crossed the secret corridor and passed through the mirror to Sandor's room, he went to the kitchen. He found the wizard preparing a stew, so he approached him and hugged him from behind, nuzzling in the back of his neck. He was more than satisfied with the work done during that day. The training was going to give good results in a couple of months, his guts told him so. 

“Lysanthir is strange.” Sandor said after a long moment of silence. He threw the recently chopped vegetables into boiling water and stirred it.

Leaving several pecks in his neck, Ifan released Sandor's waist and lent on the counter, looking at him. “Tell me about it. He's weirder the more you know him.”

“He... he  _ likes _ you. A _ lot. _ ” Sandor stopped the movement of the spoon for a second, then he continued, encouraged, “And he is handsome and skilful... and charming.” His voice became lower after each description.

Ifan squinted at him, head tilted, starting to glimpse where that line of thought was heading. 

“And he is an elf,” Sandor ominously added, focused on the stew, avoiding eye contact. He was afraid of seeing in those green eyes something youthful and lovely that was not meant for him. “Do you like him?”

_ Ah, there it was _ . Ifan rolled his eyes. Scholars were know-it-all most of the time, but good-for-nothing in real life stuff, especially in  _ getting hints _ . “Please, Sandor. Don't tell me you think of me as a wanker who wants to fuck everything that has bark skin.” 

Sandor chuckled, releasing the tension. 

“Besides, I'm not single anymore. Am I?” Ifan said.

Sandor turned his head and looked at Ifan for the first time since he had arrived. Sadness and fear were transparent in his brown eyes. “You know why I'm asking this. I'm not normal. I can't give you what you want.”

Ifan lifted his face observing the ceiling, silently thinking in something else. Then he looked at him, a mischievous smile curving his face. “Can you give me one of those massages with that electricity thing that everyone talks about?”

Sandor blinked, “What?”

“Many of my recruits told me that yesterday you healed some of their lesions using this electricity trick. Something about a method that made them recover faster and feels like heaven. Hope it's not like... those massages you gave me the other night.” Ifan whispered the last part, his voice sensual and lower. 

Sandor chuckled. “No. But to be honest... They were inspired by  _ those.” _ Ifan blinked, taken aback for something he was not expecting in the slightest. “I mean, the effect of a small discharge on muscles can be explained through an interesting process. It's related to the duality of a stressed body, which perceives danger in the discharge, and the relaxation of the mind, which knows there is no real danger at all. The more you increase the intensity of the discharge, the more you increase the levels of physical stress, but due to the lack of actual psychological stress, the patient suffers a dissociated conscious state, providing this feeling of being clouded or flying high, because the mind relies on-”

Ifan stopped Sandor's explanation with a pat on his shoulder. He smiled, “Dear, I can't get the.... scholarly thingie.”

“Oh, sorry...” He said looking down.

Gently tracing his jaw with a finger, Ifan pushed it up to raise Sandor's eyes again, “Can you?” Sandor’s face showed clear confusion. “Can you give me one of those massages? My muscles are killing me. I’ve been training people today since early morning, nonstop.”

Sandor chuckled and extinguished the fire under the pot. “Very well.” 

Sandor grabbed Ifan's belt, pulling him to their room. Softly, he removed Ifan's leather armour — the one he preferred to use during his duty time — and let his pants fall a little bit beyond his waist. He gently pushed him on the mattress, face down, and sat astride on his rear. 

He observed that well-known back, full of long and deep scars and burnings badly healed. He sprayed his hand on the low part, pressing each vertebrae, and slowly ran up, reaching Ifan's shoulders and neck. 

The pleasure forced Ifan to moan, shamelessly, absolutely conscious of them, of Sandor's hands on him, of that delightful weight on his lower back, of the memories of the other night raising one more time all across his body. Mischievous, Sandor lent in to kiss his shoulder, as his hands worked on the ribs, releasing small discharges that contracted and relaxed the muscles. 

Ifan's sighs started to become heavier and deeper, sometimes he had to bite the blankets to avoid louder sounds as a result of the electricity sparkling. At some point, he lost the notion of time and place, thinking only in those hands that in such assertive ways were commanding him into relief. The thought of being completely under Sandor's power added more pleasure to the whole situation. 

Stopping the massages for a moment, Sandor rubbed his own hands, replacing the electricity discharges of his fingers by fire. Lowering the intensity of the flames, he made his palms emanate concentrated warmth and repeated the process on Ifan's back, this time relaxing his muscles with their heat. 

Ifan groaned louder, a mixture of relief and arouse, while Sandor kept working. Tempted by such sounds, Sandor laid on him, uncovered Ifan’s nape and licked it. Ifan’s smile broadened. It was a delight to feel Sandor's weight while his sensual tongue caressed such an intimate and sensitive spot. He certainly loved to be under him. 

Hesitant, Sandor wondered if he could push the situation further, drowning Ifan in deep levels of pleasure to finally erase, somehow, his failure from the other night. The image of Ifan's face reaching climax had stuck in his mind. It was wonderful to see him struggle for breathing, with his frown raised in pleasure and his fingers digging on Sandor’s back. If only Sandor could find a way to command his own scarred mind and go further. 

“No wonder my recruits were so happy.” Ifan whispered, interrupting his thoughts.

Sandor lifted in a sudden jerk. “Ifan!”

Ifan chuckled, lazily turning over beneath Sandor. Surrendered, too relaxed to just sit on the bed, Ifan caressed Sandor's thighs appreciating the view over him. If it were not for their tiredness, he would have already suggested Sandor to make love with him mercilessly.

“A joke, darling. A joke.” Ifan said.

As usual, Sandor’s pretence of being offended faded into a sad smile at the sight of that man relaxed under him. He moved aside, sat on the edge of the bed, and caressed Ifan’s temples, combing some rebel strands of grey hair.

“You see? You have just given to me what I needed.” Ifan said closing his eyes for a moment and enjoying the touch of those slender fingers in his hair.

Sandor’s smile disappeared. Ifan was simply kind, too kind for his own good. Sandor could not stop wondering why he had chosen him as a partner. It had to be out of kindness, out of pitifulness, of course. It was the only answer in his mind. 

“You didn't answer me yet.” Sandor said, unexpectedly. 

Still lost in the sensations of his now relaxed body, Ifan struggled a moment to understand the meaning of those words. Then, with effort, he sat on the bed beside Sandor and kissed his head, his temple, his cheek, his jaw, and licked his neck, slowly. He stopped there, breathing in his neck while enduring in secret the frustration of his useless tongue. It would never let him reach Sandor deeply. He sighed and snuggled. 

Without an answer, Sandor insisted, “Do you like him? Be honest, if you lie-”

Ifan hugged him, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Sandy. He is a strange elf, but he is kind. He cares for everyone. Most people in the barracks call him  _ the mischievous mother hen _ . He makes honour to that name. I'll tell you that.” He chuckled.

“Still not  _ your _ answer. I didn't ask for his reputation in the barracks.”

“Ah. You are ruthless.”

“Still not an answer.”

Ifan drew back, recovering his mind from the dizziness caused by all those wonderful massages. “Yes, I like him. He is a good friend. And no, I'm not interested in him in  _ that _ way. I love you, Sandy.”

Sandor looked at him, silent. It was clear that his mind was crafting thousands of excuses at the same time, fighting in an endless inner argument, with questions raising at every second. But he remained quiet while both of them remained locked in an intense eye contact. Finally, Sandor curved his lips in his flickering nervous smile and walked to the kitchen. “The meal is getting cold.” He said before leaving the room.

Ifan let his head hang forwards, as his messy hair fell at both sides of his face. Then he moved his neck, first to the left then to the right, and a hollow sound popped out from the base of his shoulders. He sighed. Sandor was sometimes so uselessly complicated. 

* * *

The council meeting in Arx was settled, as usual, on the first and third week of each month. All high rank Guardians in Arx, its main scholars and captains, had to attend the council room in the barracks and sat around a big table to discuss problems related to the security of the city, new knowledge about their enemies, and strategy. 

More often than not, Sanguinia Tell attended those meetings as well, it was her way to keep pressure on the Order and control the use of her money, even though she periodically received a pile of reports showing the transparency of the institution. However, that morning she had blessed the meeting with her absence, claiming to have more important matters to attend elsewhere. Everyone could not be happier with this news.

During that encounter, one of the most important topics were the needed measures to take in order to leave Arx alone during a whole week. The meeting that Gareth had proposed to do in the Guardian Fortress was impossible to skip. The main ranks of every city and post had to assist in order to build better communication with other regions all over Rivellon. It was also imperative to develop a system that could detect the Voidwoken activity around Arx, but the concept was still a mere set of ideas, they needed a proper engineer to start thinking about it. To talk with Engineer Sanders, and convince him to work for the Guardians, had been settled by the end of the first hour of the meeting. Maybe in the next one they would have the presence of Engineer Sanders himself and a better prospect related to their defence system. 

In regards to Sandor's reports, he showed the research done in the clinic and its not-so-fruitful results of his attempts to heal silent monks. He wasted too much time explaining the technical difficulties of the process — something that nobody cared about— and finished with the enumeration of several warnings related to future health problems in the population of the slum.

On strategies, Lysanthir shared with the group some new techniques of combat he had been developing to fight against the fading Source, now that the problem was starting to affect more Guardians than what they wanted to admit. As an experienced battlemage — with such a diverse background and broad knowledge obtained through centuries — his opinion when it came to magical combat had no match. Not even Sandor could do it. It was different to know the whole, detailed magical theory than to know the true bits of the theory that actually worked in  _ practice _ . Another reason more for Sandor to feel a little bit lesser when compared to him.

“So, if we get some blood on the battlefield, it can be used as an electrifying means to stun Voidwoken. If we consider that most of you, humans and dwarves alike, have an important amount of blood in your tiny bodies, I think-” the elf explained.

“Are you suggesting we have to bleed first to stun a damn thing?” Ifan added, crossing his arms and twitching his lips. “I don’t think it’s useful. Our goal is not to be wounded.”

Lysanthir rolled his eyes, hands tossed in the air, “As if that’s possible with these swarms.”

“For starting, we need the simplest version of these techniques, usually in ideal conditions.”

“When do we fight in ideal conditions? For the Fallen.”

Lysanthir had no time to sigh in annoyance when the door of the council room opened violently. Everyone snapped their heads towards the entrance, curious for such noisy interruption. Before them, wrapped around a halo of grandiloquence, Sanguinia Tell walked in accompanied by three strangers. Her cane kept reverberating in the room with each step emphasising her presence.

Everyone looked confused, she was not supposed to be there since, according to her own words, she had  _ better matters to attend to _ . Lysanthir and DeSelby frowned, as Ifan twitched his lips nervously. Sandor observed the strangers by Sanguinia's side and looked down, wishing to disappear into thin air.

Behind her, two men and an old woman walked with that pompous swaying that high nobility creatures tend to imprint in their motion. Under closer inspection, Ifan could identify on the spot the origin of the clothes that all these people were wearing; those were thick layered robes with ornamental embroidery: the typical Balurik’s robes.

Looking for an answer, yet cautious enough to be discreet, Ifan looked at Sandor. The wizard’s evasive look, the paleness of his face, and the sudden stiffness of his body, usually relaxed in these meetings, was telling Ifan that this interruption was not a good sign. He could even swear that Sandor’s breathing had stopped by the surprise. Something was clear, these guests were unexpected and were going to be unpleasant for everyone.

“We are in a council meeting at this moment. We would appreciate it if you can allow us to finish first,” Ifan said standing up and bowing slowly as a gesture of courtesy. 

“No. That will be impossible. This is important.” Sanguinia Tell said, resting all her body weight on her cane.

Ifan raised an eyebrow, “More important than Arx’s security?”

“Exactly it's about it.” She insisted. 

Without invitation, she took a seat at the table while the strangers remained by her side. “I’ve called these professionals from the famous Balurik Academy, to research why some of us are experiencing a decrease of our Source.”

Sandor straightened his back, lifted his chin, and his look changed into a cold and poisonous one. His usually sad eyes turned hard and piercing, while all the muscles of his face tensed in a gesture full of hatred. 

Surprised by such change, Ifan needed a moment to realise that that man was...  _ Sandor. _ “We have a Mestre working on that.” He finally said. 

Sandor had not shared a single look with him, not even a single glimpse. Instead, his dark eyes were fixed on the old scholar woman, piercing her.

“A Mestre that seems to produce no results or hide them as he hides his true  _ nature, _ ” Sanguinia said, a malicious smile curving her lips as she added a strange tone to the last word. 

Ifan glimpsed at Sandor who only frowned at Sanguinia, silent. Something felt so odd in this situation, that Ifan tried to deal with it in a more diplomatic way than he would do it under normal circumstances. He looked at Sanguinia, trying to ease his face as much as possible, “If this has something to do with your weird ideas about wizards-”

Sanguinia Tell smiled, “Exactly my point, my dear commander. These people here-” She graciously moved her hand towards the strangers, “-have been researching on Source for years. No, decades. They claim that the true nature of what’s happening with our Source will be uncovered if we give them the permission and the resources to perform a research in the lands in the East, close to the Dragon’s Spine.”

“Why are they not doing it by their own means?” Sandor said, his voice was full of pride with a hint of poison. An elbow resting on the table as his wrist hung in the air, relaxed. 

“We need strong financial support.” The older scholar said. 

“Ask the Academy, then. It's not as if they lack resources.”

“Das Balurik!” Sanguinia Tell called his attention while an assertive hit of her cane against the ground emphasised her disapproval tone. 

The two younger scholars smirked. “ _ Das Balurik _ ? You didn't get a proper name yet?” One of them said. 

“I thought you had become… a nice toy of someone. Didn't you learn useful tricks in your  _ home _ to trap a decent one?” The other added. 

“Probably nobody fancies a toy-boy aged into a worn-out... minger.”

Sandor swallowed hard, wordless. 

“I imagine it must be tough to pronounce your academy's fancy name without teeth.” Ifan said in a tense tone, smiling like a wolf. 

The scholars faked their laughter, covering their mouths with delicate hands. One of them looked at Sandor again and spoke tilting his head at Ifan's direction, “Are you his toy then? So much defence coming from him. But why didn't you get his name? Escorts must have their owner's mark.” Only then, the old woman raised her hand in the air and interrupted the man’s words. 

Sanguinia Tell did not halt the confrontation, quite on the contrary, she encouraged it with her silent approval. It was more than obvious that nothing said by the strangers was new to her, they probably had discussed every detail of Sandor's past with her beforehand. She was there only to observe how Sandor was going to be humiliated.

Sandor looked down, his arms resting on the edge of the table, hiding his tight fists. He sighed, while his previous appearance--confident and assertive--seemed to falter for a brief moment. Pulling himself together, he raised his eyes, full of concentrated poison and hatred, and preventing those emotions to be transpired on his face, his voice turned softer and dangerous, “If you are going to use Arx's resources, I will have to go as well. I'll watch that every coin from Arx is used wisely. We don’t want a second scandal upon the academy, do we? ”

The comment sparkled Sanguinia's curiosity. “What do you mean?” She said.

Softening his gesture, Sandor raised his eyebrows while his tone became gentle and amicable toward Sanguinia, he moved his hands mannered, “Oh, you didn't research about the scandal that hit the perfect and famous academy fifteen years ago? Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's why anyone should look for their local Mestre’s advice first.  _ Always. _ ”

“Stop.” The old scholar woman looked at Sandor with furious eyes. “That was a shameful occurrence that must be forgotten.”

Sandor's eyes slowly raised to her, poison ready to spit, “Must it be forgotten? I disagree. Were the main responsible punished? Because last time I checked the academy authorities, nothing had changed. The same people are still in the same place. And I left it not longer ago than four years.” Taking a break, Sandor looked at his nails, emulating a higher interest in them than on what the scholars had to reply.

“What was that scandal about?” Sanguinia insisted.

Leaning his weight on the edge of the table, Sandor observed the scholars, using the most fake innocent voice he could pull out, “Yes, please, Great Mage, enlighten us all about such an unfortunate event that stained Balurik Academy’s reputation not so long ago. It would be my pleasure to listen to how that story is told by now.” 

Extremely uneasy by this strange attitude that nobody had seen before in Sandor, everyone remained wary following the conversation in silence. It was hard to make sense of his radical change of personality, but what was clear was that danger was looming over them. 

“Yes, you find pleasure in many  _ things _ .” The old scholar used her most neutral tone that, despite the low blow, it did not make Sandor’s intense visual contact falter . “It's in the past Lady Tell, you should not worry.” She said, never breaking eye contact with him.

“No. It is not the past. I'll tell you, Lady Tell. The same people that currently lead Balurik academy have a wonderful strategy to maintain its flawless fame. They have taken financial support from all the Cities of the Isles, and have been performing expeditions for years. They steal every artefact and book of interest in those expeditions, and claim them as their own without sharing those objects with the cities that gave them financial support. The academy's vaults are full of treasures that nobody but them can study. So they claim to be the best in all Rivellon because they have never allowed a fair exchange of knowledge with other scholars or academies, while they consume the financial means of most cities. The best way to claim excellence, don't you think?”

“And you think that mediocre academy you are leading here is worth anything? Is it worth studying with us? The best of the best?” One of the men said.

“At least it is  _ honest _ .” Sandor's voice turned slow and heavy, just to make a point with his short phrase.

Ifan could not hide the shadow of a smile after listening to those words. Watching Sandor fight this way made his heart speed up. A dangerous yet fair man. Certainly, if there was a scholar he could trust in, it was Sandor.

“So, everything he said is true?” Sanguinia squinted at the old woman.

The old scholar cleared her throat, “It happened more than a decade ago. It's in the past, Lady Tell.”

“The scandal is old news, yes. But the technique remains the same. The scholars sent to those expeditions usually have explicit orders to steal everything they find without reporting them to the city authorities. I know this first-hand because I was sick of following those orders,” he took a long pause to let the concept sink in, “It wouldn't be unexpected if they had been ordered to do the same in this current expedition. Am I right?” Sandor curved his lips in a viperous smile while looking at the old scholar.

Sanguinia Tell scrutinised the Balurik group for a moment, as if she were measuring the consequences of this new information; then she spoke, “Our Mestre will go with you. And you-,” She said looking at Sandor, “You have explicit  _ order _ to take everything you find there. You are only allowed to give them some copies of what you find. But only after my supervision, and after you study those artefacts.”

Sandor blinked in surprise but nodded. “My pleasure.”

Ifan looked at him, surprised and worried. Surprised because… Had he just seen Sanguinia Tell trusting in a wizard? In Sandor no less? But worried because to be in an expedition with what Sandor had always described as  _ vipers _ — and according to what Ifan had just seen right there it fell short— was extremely dangerous. However, he could see the benefit of finding new important knowledge related to the fading Source; it could be key in their future battle against the Voidwoken. If, indeed, the information given by the scholars was true. 

“Those weren't the terms.” With an ominous voice, the old scholar woman interrupted Sandor's comment, “If we don't have anything from this exchange, we are not going to share the exact location of the place.”

Everyone frowned, discreetly swearing at the false move they had just done, but then, Sandor snapped his fingers to catch everyone’s attention, and glaring at the old woman, spoke with a slight glow of Source in his eyes which gave him an evil appearance, “If you don't agree with our terms, the Balurik scandal can reach  _ every _ city where a Guardian protects. You won't be able to stop the sudden wave of bad fame that will stain the academy. Imagine that. Maybe Arx academy could use this opportunity to raise its own fame,” He dramatically stopped his words and moved his hands in a mannered way, placing a finger on his chin, tapping it three times as the silence lasted. “Your choice. You share the information of the location, explore with me the ruins, and receive copies upon previous inspection of Lady Tell, or leave now, knowing no other city will offer you even a good welcome ever again.” Sandor's smile was madly poisonous.

“You son of a whore.” One of the men murmured. 

“This is what happens when you let filth go to the academy. What did Das Vapour see in you? You bite the hand that fed you for decades.” Another man said. “You are betraying even his memory with this vulgar action.”

Sandor sighed, looking aside for a moment. That was such a low blow and still he knew there was more to come. He certainly knew it when he saw the old scholar cast a frost spell on the man's lips with a snap of her fingers. 

With a sweet voice and an evil smirk, she spoke pretending to talk to the recently punished scholar, “Don't use the Mestre's mother against him.” She looked at Sandor with those viperous eyes that Balurik teaches to all its scholars. 

In that moment, Sandor knew she was going to vomit all her poison at once in the most apparent casual speech. This was going to destroy him. 

“You were lucky not to end up like a vulgar prostitute, living your pitiful life offering your rear man after man, even though it has been quite hard for you to overcome your nature.” She gave a glimpse to Ifan and focused on Sandor again, “No matter how fancy you wear, you always need to lick someone's boots, or something else." She scoffed, giving pause to her poisoning words, "You did well, you harvested power by jumping into different beds, starting with Das Vapour's. He and the academy embraced you when your place in this world was none other but a filthy bed in a brothel. We thought that we had spared a young man like you from a terrible future. But we were mistaken.  _ We were abused by you _ . You should have stayed there, where you always belonged; at least you would be proud of granting pleasure to others. Not like now. You are only troubles and shame to us. I will not be insulted by this pretence of an elegant demeanour coming from you, a vulgar mannered man who sits in a place that requires worth and ability, things you lack completely. You should, at least, respect and honour what we did for you, and put yourself aside.”

Feeling his eyes burning, Sandor averted her hateful look for a moment and found DeSelby's who could not conceal the shock of the information. Ashamed, he steel himself, bit his tongue, and returned to look at the old woman, silent. Although this blow was what he had been expecting from the moment he saw these scholars stepping into the room, it was hard to take it. 

Of course, he could not expect anything different from a member of that cursed academy. The old woman had been pretending neutrality. This change in the terms only uncovered her disguise and made her show her fangs, full of poison.

Sanguinia Tell smiled, pleased to see such a reaction from the rest of the council. Lysanthir remained unchanged, petrified like a statue, only observing in silence, while DeSelby blinked in disbelief at the Mestre. Anxious, Ifan looked at each of the presents, wanting to help Sandor somehow but unable to know how to do it. Sandor was paralysed, restraining to show any reaction while heavily keeping eye contact with the old woman. Despite his neutral face, it was easy to see Sandor’s struggle. 

“No need to craft lies.” Ifan added, desperate to open a gate out of that mess for Sandor. 

However, Sandor raised a hand in the air to stop him. “It's okay.” He whispered, looking down at the table, and sighed. It was meaningless to keep on pretending, “I was raised in a brothel, and I did… things. But I was a child. The highest authorities of the Academy always found it more undignified to have a student with such a past than the horrors I passed through, which, sadly, are frequent in the Isles.” A couple of tears fell along Sandor's face, as he took a moment to swallow. The poison in his eyes had been diluted with their wetness, “I didn't jump into beds. They always assaulted mine. And your husband was not different. He always liked the sickest things you can imagine…  _ with a child _ . Maybe you should know it  _ now  _ and think again about who deserves respect and honour and who has to be put aside.”

Everyone remained in a lugubrious silence, shocked a second time. That had been the poisonous last bite of a poisoned viper. 

With the remaining bits of strength, Sandor stood up, delicately wiped out his tears, and looked at the old woman, “Your low blow means nothing. The terms stay the same. The choice is still up to you. I don't care what gossip you'd spread about me. I was no one then, I'm no one now.” He walked away, closing the door violently behind him. 

The old woman frowned, more shocked than anyone else by the information so suddenly dropped. 

The tense silence loosened over the seconds. Ifan sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose while feeling that, for the first time since Sanguinia had entered, he could finally breathe. He looked at Lysanthir, whose face and attitude were as neutral as before. DeSelby was clearly uneasy. Everyone there wanted to put an end to that damned meeting. 

“What he said.” Sanguinia Tell interrupted the silence, standing up. She looked at the old scholar and continued, “The terms are exactly those spoken by the Mestre. You have a day to decide. Meet me at my home tomorrow morning with your decision. Preferably ready to depart with our Mestre.” Knowing that there was nothing to decide, she smirked. 

Sanguinia and the scholars left the room, and only then, Lysanthir sighed loudly. He let his facial gesture relax as well as his shoulders, and moved his head, cracking sounds popping out with each movement. “The hell with that woman. When I say I like my humans intense... I don't mean  _ this _ . I'm going to have nightmares tonight.” 

* * *

During the rest of the day, Ifan tried several times to check on Sandor in their house by sneaking through the corridor, but it was always empty. Probably, Sandor had decided to spend the day in the clinic or in the academy, trying not to dwell much on what had happened that morning. 

At night, when the long day of work had finished, Ifan returned to their house. He smiled when he stepped in across the mirror and found the man — always giving his back to any entrance — folding clothes on the bed and placing them into a bag. 

“How is my favourite Mestre?” Ifan whispered as he embraced Sandor from behind, sliding his hands around his waist, “What am I going to do with you? you are always giving your back.” 

Sandor chuckled, finishing to put the last robe in the bag. Then, he turned around inside the embrace and left a peck on Ifan's lips. “I haven't cooked dinner yet.”

“I'll do that. Don't worry.” He snuggled in Sandor's neck, making the contact last longer than usual .

“Are you okay?” Sandor said, puzzled by the silence of his behaviour. 

Ifan drew back a little bit and looked at him. “That's what I should say to you. How are you? With all that... fuckery happening this morning.”

Sandor sighed and pulled Ifan to sit on the edge of the bed. He kept holding his scarred hands, caressing his fingers with his. “I'm okay. I try to convince myself that it was going to be a matter of time for everyone to know it. Better this way. I guess. At least we will get something in return.”

“I talked with everyone from the council. They won't say anything to anyone. It's not their business. You can count on them. But, Sanguinia Tell worries me.”

Sandor shrugged, his nervous smile flickered, “One more reason into the list of things that make her hate me. Imagine if she knows you share a bed with this filthy unworthy wizard full of diseases, embodiment of the debauchery itself.”

Ifan chuckled unsure if that comment was a joke to release some pressure or something else to worry about. Either case, he decided to approach it lightly, “I would tell her myself just to see her face. Maybe it can give her a heart attack. All this time so exposed to this  _ incredible _ wizard.” He pulled Sandor closer and kissed his forehead. “I knew you had a sharp tongue, but this morning... that was many levels over my expectations.” He smirked full of complicity and admiration. 

Sandor sighed, serious. “I hope you don't think of myself as one of  _ those _ . I had to learn how to be like them to live in the Academy. Everyone was all the time trying to learn the dirtiest side of anyone else so they could use it against them. Of course, I was always in great disadvantage. No one was dirtier than me. But I grew tired of that lifestyle. Imagine living that way, every day, all the time. That was not life.”

“You are not dirty, Sandy.” With a warm smile, Ifan tilted his head and kissed Sandor tenderly. “And no. You are not like those. I know.” He drew back, ruefully, and looked at the bags on the bed. “So... you are leaving.  _ Again _ . We can't have you for long in the city.”

“Not my pleasure, either.”

“Take care of yourself. I'll be worried sick for you. Those people… they can hurt you.”

Sandor chuckled. “They can certainly try. They always tried in the Academy, and look where I am. I know better and rarer spells than them. I always was, ironically,  _ better _ than them.” He looked down, “Because the Source, of course.”

“But now they are not mere mages anymore, they are Sourcerers too. Are you going to be safe with them?”

“I've lived-, I mean, I've survived almost thirty years among them, I don't think they can be stronger than me.”

Ifan raised an eyebrow, a side smile on his lips, “What a great confidence you developed lately, uh?”

“No, it's not that. If my theory is correct, people who were not a Sourcerer before the destruction of Divinity are now experiencing the flickering of Source. I'm still trying to figure out why and how, but my guess has been corroborated by the statistics so far.”

Ifan tilted his head, a slight frown on his face, “You never felt something off with your Source during all this time?”

Sandor touched his chin with a finger. “No. Did you?”

“My Source is fine. Just, it feels  _ odd _ when I use a great amount of it. And it’s different from Source ashes.”

Sandor creased his eyebrows, looking aside while thinking. “Mn. Strange. Good thing you told me. If anything else changes with your Source, please inform me. It may be vital in the research of the phenomenon.”

“I'll do. But for now...” He stood up, turned over his heels and walked to the kitchen, “...Source won't cook for us.” 

“Unless we ask Engineer Sanders for one of his puppets.” Sandor said.

Ifan stopped at the frame door and turned a bit, wrinkling his nose, “Uhg, please. Those creepy things? I don't want any of them around me while we sleep.”

Sandor chuckled and continued with his bags. 

* * *

The following day, Sanguinia Tell was waiting for him in front of the city entrance, straight and proud with her body weight resting on her cane. By her side, the Balurik scholars were standing, their aversion for the situation was evident on their faces. Sandor wore his most viperous mask to proudly walk before them and greeted Lady Tell. She received him with a fake but agreeable gesture. His smart blackmail allowed him to be Sanguinia's temporary ally. She even talked  _ proudly _ about Arx Academy for a brief moment.

Once everyone was ready, Sanguinia Tell made clear one more time that, considering the expedition had been completely founded by her money, she wanted results and a complete acceptance of the terms. Everything found in these ruins would be taken by Arx and only after detailed examination from its scholars — and her — they would provide a copy of some books and artefacts to Balurik Academy. If there were no inconveniences, and the Balurik scholars behaved properly during the expedition, they would even receive some of the original objects as a token of friendship. Of course, everyone accepted the deal since there were no other choices for the Balurik scholars. 

The Commander of the Guardians provided a small group of six warriors meant to protect the scholars in case they were attacked by Voidwoken during the expedition. Not that they truly needed them, considering all those people in robes were masters of magic, but it was a strategic movement to give Sandor additional support in case the vicious scholars would decide to turn down the terms and betray him. Ifan would have preferred to go with them, but he knew Arx needed its commander.

With a last nod of respect, Sandor and Ifan gave their respective goodbyes, several steps away one from the other. Then, the group started their journey. 

The travelling on plain land lasted almost a week. It was easy to reach the foot of the mountains of the Dragon's Spine--close to the back to the Blackpits--. However, from that point on, the atmosphere turned foggy and inspired danger. They even met some Voidowken and fought against them as they penetrated the valleys.

Surrounding the rock formations and avoiding the leaks of Deathfog that flooded this zone, they found many geological breaches. One of those long breaches extended all over the surface of the mountain exuded a green miasma, indicating with its presence the right direction to follow. Walking across it gave them goosebumps, as that mist interacted with their own Source. That was proof enough to know that such a breach was not a mere landform.

The group walked into the first entrance big enough to let them pass. By the breach's side, Sandor immediately recognised one of those strange monoliths that had been appearing all over Rivellon, a supposed tribute for elves long gone. 

Illuminating the path with magical fire, they made their way down the breach for days. Now the true expedition had started. Inside this place, where the sunlight could not reach, it was easy to lose track of time. They could not guess if it had been one or two weeks of long walks into barren caves while the miasma surrounded them.

The perception of time was not the only problem they had to face, the constant bickering among the scholars tensed the atmosphere so much that the Guardian squad --present there mainly to protect Sandor-- had to intervene frequently. Small disagreements over the nature of a stone wall could end up in heated discussions fed by old resentments, and more often than not, they finished an argument by resorting to magical violence. It was in those moments that the Guardians had to de-escalate the fight immediately, not always accomplishing it in good terms. In fact, the situation became so tense that two attempts to kill Sandor happened in the following days.

One of the first attempts was during their hours of rest while camping in the dark cavernous corridors. One of the Balurik scholars tried to slit Sandor's neck during his sleep. What he did not know was that Sandor — as a consequence of those years of chasing after Divinity — had developed a compulsive obsession to sleep with several magical protections around him. One of them was an invisible water shield that, no matter his state of mind, would trigger one of his typical Source blasts if any stranger crossed it. So that when the man tried to attack him, Sandor blasted, throwing him against the closest wall. The whole camp violently awoke with the magical explosion. That had been a clear warning to those viperous scholars.

That triggering water shield was an impressive feat; the scholars had to recognise. Most mages could not maintain spells while sleeping, even less those that required balance and concentration. 

During the following days some other attempts were performed during their wakefulness. The casual fall of stalactites or sudden ice cast under Sandor's feet when they were crossing narrow bridges or climbing, were the other attempts that failed completely. Sandor had lived almost thirty years in the Balurik Academy and had performed this kind of expedition many times. He was quite aware of all the treacherous tricks that could be used to eliminate any undesirable rival and he knew how to craft a situation to make it look like an accident. He had survived too many of them to be outsmarted on that matter.

However, the last straw was when one of those tricks almost killed an Ifan's Guardian by accident. Furious, Sandor displayed all his Source, strangling the scholar men with tongues of thick water wrapped around their heads, slowly suffocating them. The old woman tried to defend them but she could not stop Sandor; he had turned into a powerful scholar — he was a Godwoken, after all — who could use his Source instability as a demonstration of strength. Of course, he dismissed the spell at the last moment, hoping it had been enough to leave a clear warning.

Secretly, Sandor was grateful for those attempts of assassination. They had been a good excuse to release all the Source that he had been accumulating during the expedition, which unused, it was constantly tickling his skin as a dormant threat of blasting.

Due to the frictions among the scholars and the lack of fresh air and sunlight, the whole group was starting to lose faith in finding those ruins, wondering if the Balurik scholars had lied to them. At some point, Sandor confronted them, demanding them to speak the truth about their intentions under the threat of blasting them with his Source. However, the intimidatory remark did not change the scholars' mind. They were as frustrated as Sandor for living more than two week underground without a hint of the place where these ruins were located.

Thanks to their last fight, Sandor’s blasts cracked part of the rock walls, uncovering smooth patches with glowing runes proper of advanced building. They were made of metal and produced a soft hum which was more intense the more they travelled.

In less than an hour of walking along those corridors, they found the entrance to a more open room which displayed a building underground. It had an enormous gate with rhomboid patterns and lines that softly glowed, it was Source infused into the material. Sandor had no doubts. It was Eternal architecture, the same one he had seen in the Blackpits two years ago. Maybe this one was a continuation of it. 

Using the several phase-capacitors spread in the room, Sandor opened the gate, and the group finally entered these promising ruins. Beyond the entrance, the place looked like The Academy in the Nameless Isle; it had many rooms with long tables and flying shelves full of books and tablets. There was also a room full of artefacts which functions had been forgotten long ago, even though Sandor suspected that more than one of them were Source reservoirs. They looked highly familiar to him. However, as it was expected, half of these objects were useless, cracked and rotten by millennia.

All over the place there was a disturbing detail that Sandor could not ignore: in each corner of each room there was a Black Ring totem decorating the spaces discreetly. This expedition was not the first one in finding these ruins, that was obvious. However, his biggest surprise was to find several notebooks full of Das Vapour's handwriting spread on an enormous table. Concealing his excitement and wearing his coldest face, Sandor informed his intention of taking care of those notes personally, guaranteeing their accurate translation since he had been Das Vapour's disciple. Although the idea was not gladly received by the Balurik scholars, they were not in position to claim anything else.

Under a more careful brief inspection, Sandor knew he had lied. Those notes were not like the ones he used to read as a teenager, written in that complex personal language developed by Das Vapour that combined seven different languages in one. This one was strange and hard to point out its similarity with any other language known by Sandor. For the first time, he saw a language that could not identify in the slightest, confirming his deepest fear: Das Vapour had not taught him everything he knew, as he used to claim. He worried. These books had to contain extremely sensitive data… but about what? He hoped to count on Gratiana or Fane for their future translation.

During the rest of the following days , the group inspected objects and books in more rooms and explored secret passages which seemed to gather only dust and broken objects. They had to decide what elements they would bring back to Arx, because despite having six warriors strong enough to carry a lot of weight on their backs, they could not bring everything. By the sixth week since their departure, they returned to Arx.

Sanguinia Tell was the first person who welcomed them. She was satisfied to see the bags full of books and artefacts. She sent them all to the academy for further study and gave her goodbyes to the Balurik scholars, promising that their academy’s fame would remain intact and, after a prudential time, they would receive copies of the material eventually. Furious, they gave a last viperous look at Sandor and left the city, cursing under their breath. 

As soon as he put a foot in his dear academy, Sandor sent war owls to Gratiana and Fane, asking for their opinion on those books written in an unfathomable language. Happy and excited, Tarquin welcomed all the rare artefacts and started to work immediately. Meanwhile, Sandor had more than a hundred books and tablets to read and translate in order to explain their value to Sanguinia Tell. It was more than obvious that all that work, including his unattended clinic, was going to put him into his usual exhausted state once again, which, on the other hand, he was eagerly looking for. The expedition had allowed him to accumulate too much Source in his body for his own comfort, and he was not sure how long he would hold it without blasting. At least his permanent state of exhaustion gave him a false sense of stability.

The following weeks in Arx were calm and routine. Fane appeared once, wearing a disguise of a human that was starting to lose its healthy colour, and collected all Das Vapour's books. He promised Sandor that in less than a month he was going to come back with them. And so he did. 

After exactly a month, an old dwarf appeared in the barracks. He was nervous and seemed to be in a hurry. He simply peered through the barrack's entrance and saw the field full of recruits training. In a corner, he spotted Ifan, so he moved his glovered hand to catch the commander's attention, who frowned at the stranger. Never abandoning his sight on the recruits, Ifan approached him.

“There you are. I was looking for you.” The dwarf said. 

“Excuse me?” Ifan looked at him, confused, “Do I know you?”

“Ugh, Godwoken power has always been a waste in you. You are as slow as any mortal, I always forget how fragile your memory is. Flesh decays after all.” 

That petulant inflection in his voice, despite the unusual tone of it due to new vocal cords, made Ifan finally recognise him. “Ah, Fane. It's been a while. Changing clothes, I see. The last ones were starting to put all the dogs in the city too excited, huh? Good to see you are fine.”

“Ha. Ha. Funny. Anyway, I don't have much time. Just take this.” He extended a bag with more than forty books. Or at least, that was what Ifan guessed when he took it. 

Ifan frowned. “What's this?”

“Something that Sandor asked me to translate. I think... I think you should be the one who gives them.”

Ifan stared at him, now more puzzled than before, “Why? can’t you do it yourself?”

“These texts were written in Eternal language and some of them talk about Sandor. Don't ask me why. I wonder the same. Now, what I can tell you is... that nothing written here is pleasant. You need to stay there when he reads them.”

Hesitant, Ifan observed that bag, curious, “Should I expect an overload of Source?”

“I would say  _ many. _ ”

Ifan remained silent. The vague information was enough for him to feel a painful twitch in his stomach, as it usually did when something terrible was going to happen. Wordless, he nodded in a gesture of gratitude and said goodbye to that dwarf.

* * *

That night, Ifan returned home through the long corridor, bringing with him that ominous bag. He gave it to Sandor who, excited, quickly spread all the books on the main table. While Sandor read, Ifan prepared their dinner; his attention always focused on the main room, expecting any signal that could mean bad news.

After some minutes, he heard a soft  _ no _ . A  _ no  _ with a trembling soft voice but charged with a thick layer of despair. It was the signal. He put the food apart from the fire and left the kitchen to join Sandor.

He found Sandor with his widened eyes fixed on a book, jumping from one line to another; his breath restrained, and his lower lip slightly trembling. More  _ noes  _ fell from his mouth as some tears jumped from his eyes. He could not stop reading, but he could not bear it either. 

Peering over Sandor's shoulder, Ifan read some fragments below a title named as  _ Sandor _ , and his blood turned icy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

_ SANDOR _

* * *

* * *

_ Subject's mother: old prostitute. No knowledge of Source or magic. _

_ Subject's father: unknown. Most probably the one with a magical lineage. _

_ The mother has been greatly weakened due to childbirth. I assume she would not live longer. _

_ The Subject presents enormous amounts of Source in dormant state, easy to detect despite being a baby. We need to stimulate it. Further exploration is required, which should not be a problem considering the Subject’s lack of family or protectors. _

* * *

_ Upon second inspection, we can daresay that the Subject has chances to become a natural wizard. Better conditions for this experiment cannot be asked for. _

_ Several deals have been made to finally convince the Subject's owner. He wants to collect some profit from this process. We agreed on seeing into it, but in a short-term future. So far, I have access to use the Subject. _

* * *

_ He has been growing normally as it was expected. If my hypotheses are true, a wizard kid who still is unable to use his Source can be destabilised by inflicting onto his body an artificial need for more Source. The greater the instability, the greater the amount of Source his body will gather in the future. This principle would allow us to increase his Source pool indefinitely. _

_ This process can be stimulated with traumatising shocks. Sadly, my Subject lacks emotional bonds to stimulate the instability through such aspect, instead physical pain should be required. However, his constitution is fragile and may not resist the procedure if used plain physical treatment. I cannot risk losing such a fine specimen. I will look for advice from other fellows on this matter. The Subject is quite suitable for the experiment, but we need to keep him alive in the fine line of instability to fixate him in such a state and produce an anomalous growth of his Source pool. _

* * *

_ Thanks to my fellows' advice, the Owner and I reached a mutually beneficial deal. I allowed the Owner to use the Subject to offer special services, considering the presence of Source is an interesting feature to consume in his line of business. At the same time, I will keep a record of every change in the Subject's powers. The Owner is pleased with the agreement. Tonight it will be the first exposure of the Subject to this new level of stress. I am quite eager to see the first results. _

* * *

_ The Subject has been submitted to diverse levels of physical violence tolerable for his constitution in order to produce psychological stress and to reach his first Source blast. The Subject keeps reacting as accordingly. Sadly, the involved unaware man died. The Subject is now under a sustained instability that must be fixated in his body. I need to find a solution to let the process continue further without deaths. The Owner threatened me to kill the Subject. He claimed that such accidental death in his establishment will affect his business. I had to pay several gold coins as a compensation. I promised the Owner that I would find a solution immediately. _

* * *

_ Source restricting devices. That is the solution. The Source restrictions drain the Subject's Source. The stress caused by pain forces him to produce blasts of Source even after being Source depleted. The result is an incredible expansion of his Source pool and his Source rate recovery. His body fights for balance while the devices drain him to exhaustion. This process costs the ability of controlling his Source, but I am confident that it will be solved later. So far, my theory has been a success. _

* * *

_ Watching so much Source wasted in blasts pains me. I have been developing Source containers to use them soon. I still need to test them. _

* * *

_ Today we submitted the Subject to high levels of stress by using three acolytes. I have never seen such an amazing Source power. Exhausted and depleted, the Subject kept blasting Source which was channelled into the devices; my ingenious Source containers. These reservoirs can be used later by non-Sourcerers to cast spells. This has turned out into a utility of great use. _

* * *

_ Regarding the Subject's pool, it has been enlarged beyond my comprehension. However, his Source recovery rate oscillates. I assume it is caused by his exhaustion. But his blasts have been spectacular. He even destroyed the container devices twice and killed the participants. The Subject lost consciousness afterwards. I had to order to revive those acolytes to avoid further conflicts with the Owner. _

* * *

_ The Subject has acquired certain endurance to the daily pain he is submitted to. Neither his Source pool nor his Source recovery rate have experienced any noticeable change lately. This forces me to incorporate Lord Ferx into this research. Lord Ferx is a professional torturer. As such, he has increased the stress on the Subject mixing pain with pleasure, an interesting element considering Source is an emotion-related manifestation. This idea has escaped to me since I had been too focused on pain to stimulate the Subject's Source. _

_ By forcing pleasure on the Subject in combination with the usual physical and mental stress, the Source pool has doubled its size in less than a night. This process must be repeated as many times as possible in the following months. Maybe several participants must be incorporated as well. I will keep investigating this line of work considering what an amazing result it has offered so far. This is so promising.” _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

Unable to finish reading the translation, Ifan had to look away. His stomach was revolted. He looked at Sandor whose tears were running down along his cheeks while intense tendrils of Source climbed along his neck reaching his temples.

Sandor held back as much as he could, trying to keep reading, but the blurry vision and the overwhelming emotions were too much to bear. A drowned heartbreaking cry escaped from his throat and covered his face with both hands. His arms were full of Source cracks as well. All his body trembled as the cry, as an avalanche, increased in its daunting sound. Small waves of Source transformed into kinetic blasts hit against all the objects of the house, making them hop slightly. 

Dragging a chair, Ifan sat by his side; his eyes jumping from the ground to Sandor, worried and tortured by his cry. He remained there, hearing him wail as his own tears started to fall as well, entangled with Sandor's emotions. He waited and waited, knowing that any touch, in such a fragile moment probably would put Sandor into too much stress. The last thing he wanted was Sandor feeling guilty for violent blasts that could hurt him badly. 

Slowly, giving Sandor time to manifest his emotions, Ifan closed the books spread on the table and arranged the notes in tidy piles. He sniffed a couple of times and wiped out his own tears. It was hard for him to endure Sandor's cry. It was reaching him deeply, echoing in his flesh, hurting him too. And once again, he remained still by his side, waiting patiently. 

Now everything made sense. Why Das Vapour had appeared out of the blue to save Sandor from his daily torture, why he accepted without second thoughts an unstable Sourcerer child, why he kept him closer by turning him into his apprentice, and why he hid Sandor in the academy for years.

Sandor's tortured childhood was in those books, every twisted detail explained by that wicked scholar who without regret or sympathy, had used a kid like a mere anonymous guinea pig. 

In the end, Ifan had been right, his gut had always been correct. That son of the Void of Das Vapour had never been a gentle tutor but a cruel scholar without scruples to use children in the most sickening and twisted experiments. And what for? To simply understand Source and its ways to accumulate it. Ifan was so angry. If the twisted man were alive, he would kill him again, and again, and again.

After a while, when the sobs diminished, Ifan touched Sandor’s shoulder with just the tips of his fingers, afraid of a sudden violent blast. But unlike other times, instead of expecting rejection, Sandor immediately sought Ifan’s arms and squeezed him with all the strength he had, nailing his fingers on his back and letting his cry go free once again. He could only cry. 

Ifan could understand him so well, saving the distances, of course. He had been there too. 

Sandor had been tricked, used, and betrayed. The only good thing which seemed to have happened in his life — a caring tutor that wanted to keep his distance — had been a lie as well. A _ terrible _lie which now was uncovered as the real cause of his traumatic Source instability. He felt dirty for having spent so many years wishing for Das Vapour to be like a father to him; always looking for his approval in order to receive, one day, a paternal gesture that could fill his empty life with something more than knowledge and books and magic. So many years behaving too well so Daniel could see in him the son he never had. How naive Sandor had been. 

“My Source.” Sandor whispered and drew back as tears kept running. His swollen eyes were glowing in intense green and Source tendrils were spread all over his skin. He could not contain his blast any longer. Ifan nodded, forcing a tranquillity hard to pretend before such a colossal amount of Source collected in seconds.

Gently, Ifan touched Sandor's neck and knelt to the ground, trying to channel the energy like he did for the first time in Fort Joy. The arch of Source was monstrously intense, splitting into several branches, crackling and agitating the air until finally fading into the ground.

Source depleted, Sandor sought shelter in Ifan's neck, embracing him tightly. He hid his face in that herbal-scented neck, while his tears finally stopped, and only a random sniffing and a tired disappointment remained.

Such a betrayal. Daniel Das Vapour had been the only decent person in his life that had cared for him... and now, now everything made sense. Sadly. 

* * *

From the following day up, Sandor became taciturn, more than he usually was. He spent most of the day in the main table, surrounded by those recently translated books. Since the day he read those reports, he had been skipping the Academy and the Clinic, and Ifan had to excuse him with everyone, saying that the scholar was too invested into the translation of those ancient books locked in his house. Thankfully, it was an excuse that was going to last for a while. 

The truth was several times more painful. 

When Ifan returned home through the long corridor at night, or sometimes just through crossing the main door — there was nothing wrong with the appearance of a good friend visiting another — he would find Sandor lost in those books, working without stop even when the sobs strangled his throat.

As part of their routine, Ifan would prepare their meal in silence, forcing Sandor to eat it. It was obvious that the wizard would skip every meal otherwise. Having dinner had turned silent as well, only interrupted by random sniffs, evasive looks, and the sound of turning pages. That was all what they shared. Ifan's attempts to talk about something ended up with sad apathetic monosyllabic answers coming from Sandor.

Most of the time Ifan could not convince him to go to sleep with him and rest. So that, Ifan would end up waking in the middle of the night, in an empty bed, with no signs that would suggest that Sandor rested there for at least a little bit. In fact, it was more common to find him every morning collapsed on the table. It was becoming a sad daily picture.

Ifan would leave the house silently, not without placing a blanket on Sandor's shoulders. He would command Afrit to stay by the wizard’s side to take care of him, and would put a breakfast on the table that the wizard could warm later with his magic. There was not much to do beyond that; Sandor had to process his own grief. 

This routine could not last forever. Two or three weeks had to be enough. Sandor's dark circles under his eyes were becoming deep, and his absence in the Clinic and the Academy had started to worry everyone, even Tarquin. Besides, it was a matter of time before Sanguinia Tell would ask him for the translations and results of all what had been found in the expedition. Ifan _ needed _to do something.

That night, Ifan took a bath after crossing the corridor and sat by Sandor's side at the table. He observed him in silence and moved Sandor's long fringe — half grey by now — behind his ear. Sandor's eyes were swollen and red. Too focused on writing, Sandor did not notice Ifan's fingers lightly touching his cheeks, or maybe he was just ignoring him on purpose. 

Ifan waited, observing the speed of Sandor's handwriting. When the feather finally dropped a full stop on the paper, Sandor raised his eyes and met Ifan's. For a long moment they kept looking at each other without saying a word.

“Sandor.”

The wizard averted his eyes and rubbed them. It had been impossible to get rid of the deep burning in their back and the sensation of thickness each time he blinked. 

“Sandor. I think it's enough. You need to recover your routine. These...” Ifan looked at the books and notes spread on the table, “...are not going to give you back what you lost. You can't erase what happened.” Ifan's lips pursed in a thin line, nervous, hurt. His own words were terrible, he knew it, but this needed to be said.

“I know. I'm not a child.” Sandor's voice was hoarse.

“Then stop.”

Sandor's face hardened. Unexpectedly, he snapped his head at Ifan, defying him despite his lame state. “What do you want from me?”

Ifan raised an eyebrow. “Uh? To stop you from this crazy routine? Look, I'm not telling you not to take your time to think about all this. It's a lot to process. I'm not saying it's not. But you need to get proper rest, eat well, take a break from these books-”

“No. Not that,” Sandor frowned, lowering his head. “You must be hiding something. Everyone does.”

Ifan squinted at him. He could not be more confused. “I'm hiding nothing, Sandy. I was a Lone Wolf. I told you all about my worst side. My sins. The _ Deathfog _. What are you looking for?”

“There must be something else. I must be useful to you in some way I can't see. Maybe this Mestre thing? Because you need a trustworthy scholar, one of those you hate so much, so you are pretending... to be with me? Maybe that's why you don't want anyone to know about us...” Sandor gasped, touching his neck with a trembling hand full of Source tendrils as the idea sunk in his mind. “Just tell me. I know you don’t fancy humans. So stop pretending something you don't feel.”

Ifan sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose and took a moment before speaking. “Sandy... No. Don't follow that train of thought. It goes nowhere.”

Sandor’s voice came up as a trembling whisper, “Then why? Why would you be with someone like me if I'm not useful to you somehow? I'm a hindrance. I'm not an elf.”

“Not this again.” Shaking his head, Ifan exhaled. It was unbelievable how all those insecurities resurfaced every time Sandor was a little bit weak. How could he give Sandor a reassurance that could last?

“I'm someone without interest in military or elven culture, or hunting, or any other interest you have. I work with what you dislike the most: books.”

“Sandor.” Ifan said softly, looking down at the table.

“I can't even fuck like normal people.”

“Sandor, please.”

Sandor wiped out sudden tears that appeared at the corner of his eyes, “And I worked on that for years. I should know how to-”

“Sandy. Stop it. Just stop. Please.”

Ifan's mortified whisper made Sandor silent for a second. “Why do you want to be with me if I have nothing of interest for you?”

Ifan sighed again, observing the Source cracks spreading along Sandor's neck and hands, his sad eyes flickering in green sometimes. Slowly, Ifan took Sandor's hands between his and placed them on the table, caressing them with his fingers. The contrast of his hands full of marks and scars with Sandor's — darker, delicate, and soft, with glowing veins of Source — was a beautiful picture to contemplate before speaking. “Because I simply love you, Sandy. Isn't that enough for you? You just keep forgetting it.”

Sandor looked down, focused on their hands, watching and feeling that tender thumbing. “It can't be.”

“Look.” Ifan rested his elbows on the table — leaning all his body weight on them, never releasing Sandor's hands — and got closer to his face, looking straight into his eyes, dearly. “You are feeling like shit. Hell, you look like shit.” His words made Sandor draw back a little, frowning. Ifan chuckled, “It’s the truth. Right now you feel betrayed by someone you idealised all your life. I've been right there: Lucian. It's not the same but close. Lucian didn't raise me. But I know how it feels _ that _ kind of betrayal. When you trust someone blindly and then they betray you, you wonder if all the other people around you could be the same kind of asshole. Trust me. Don’t fall in that hole. Just don’t ruminate that. We are good together, we care for each other, we share things. And I love you. The good, the bad, the all of you. That should be enough, dear. _ That's enough _.”

Sandor looked down, touched by Ifan’s words. Then he lowered his head to press his forehead against Ifan's hands, and released a quivering sigh. Ifan smiled and kissed Sandor's hair, caressing that stubborn head with the tip of his nose while squeezing his hands. He truly wanted a deeper connection with this silly man, something that would never give him room for doubts. The idea — which had been always in his mind — came stronger this time. Yes. He wanted to do _ that. _ Soon.

“Ah, and one more thing. Don't dare treat me like an illiterate soldier. I'm writing a book. I read books, just not the boring ones you do.” Ifan said against Sandor's hair, and both, gently, chuckled. 

[ ](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/187465304097/lairofsentinel-seeing-the-good-in-you-the-bad)

* * *

During the following days, Sandor gave the first steps to break his unhealthy routine. It started with a breakfast shared with Ifan and a caring kiss before watching him leave through the secret passage. The rest of the morning he would spend it at the academy, where he would take a substantial lunch with Tarquin and would catch up about the news there. Then, he would head to the clinic to put the most important things in order, and would return home early. His mood was not exactly the best one to be surrounded by ill people. He had instructed enough healers to take care of the clinic for several weeks more.

It was in the calmness of his house where he could work much better in the translation of books and in the accurate understanding of his own Source. Because, beyond the pain and the nightmares that those reports brought to his life, they contained a detailed study of his unique Source. 

Thanks to them, all his hypotheses about his Source were confirmed. Normal Sourcerers grew up at the same time their Source cores did, manifesting their powers at a young age. Their bodies adjusted to their Source natural recovery rate, and their Source pool expanded as much as they kept using their powers. That was the importance of stimulating Sourcerer kids in order to become adults with the ability to gather a large amount of Source. During all this process, the kid's body would develop normally, and their Source stability would never be an issue beyond situations of overwhelming stress.

But for Sandor, the process was different. He had been the subject of an experiment that broke that balance; and his wizard nature only over-magnified its consequences. 

The reports explained what he had been suspecting all his life: every time he blasted, his normal recovery rate of Source increased a little bit, speeding up the following blast, and starting once again this self-fed vicious cycle. So he was condemned to experience his blasts at a higher frequency, over and over, unless he could stop that blast-cycle. Exactly that had always been the function of the devices that allowed him for years to look like a normal child.

However, holding Source fed another cycle, stimulating another effect with its own consequences. Forcing his maladjusted body to hold so much Source increased the size of his natural pool, and therefore the raw power of his Source.

The combination of blasts and restrictive devices helped him not only to unbalance his natural development but also to break his limits continuously. So, in short, blasting or burning his Source to reach depletion would condemn him to blast quicker every time, while holding his Source with restrictive devices would increase the intensity and the catastrophic effects of future blasts.

Either option was going to be a disaster in the long-term. But he had to pick something. This must have been seen by Das Vapour early, and considering that the human body has its own limits, he stopped wasting time in working on these experiments with not promising results in the future. Sooner or later, Sandor was going to reach those limits; his own Source would destroy him.

The only thing that could delay that deadly point was the restrictive devices. Since he had been captured and sent to Fort Joy, he had lived without them. More or less, he had done quite well so far, holding his blasts the best he could, but mostly, using the technique of burning his Source. Now it was clear why, despite his daily massive use of Source at the clinic, his recovery was faster than ever.

He closed his eyes as he felt the burning feeling of Source wanting to escape from his pores. He took a flowerpot — the same one he had been working with — and buried his fingers in it, using his Source excess to cast that spell he had been practising for so long. It was his way to deal with his Source. Sadly, more than making its surface tremble, he could not produce any other effect in the flowerpot. The growth spell required an enormous amount of Source that he did not have. But then, the idea crossed his mind: he could gather all the Source, he only needed to hold it more than ever.

_ Yes _. 

The idea kept flitting around his mind the following days. He started to study other reports: the ones focused on restrictive devices, those that always had Das Vapour’s attention. He analysed the several blueprints of prototypes and improvements and found the last version of the _ shackles _. Reading about them made his stomach hurt, but he put his emotions aside. He took a long piece of paper and started to copy the model accompanied with several instructions and modifications of his own. If Sandor had been a failed experiment, he decided in that moment not to waste his peculiarity. That growth spell was going to work. And he... he was going to grow as well.

* * *

For a couple of days he focused on the design of new Source reservoirs — smaller than the ones he used in his teenage— and detachable, so they, once full, could be exchanged by an empty one without completely removing the shackle. He also added some pompous design in them, to conceal their restrictive nature and made them look like common accessories of a typical fancy Balurik scholar. It felt right, or at least, Sandor wanted to convince himself of that.

Once finished, he brought the blueprints to Engineer Sanders' house, asking him to craft them. The Engineer smiled, fascinated by the technology used in them, and accepted more than eager the challenge to bring into reality this curious object.

In a week Sandor collected the result. The engineer had taken the liberty of modifying some pieces, a professional adjustment that Sandor did not complain about. It had improved their efficiency and comfort in combination with a more aesthetic design. 

That day, Sandor returned to his house earlier. He placed the package on the main table and opened it. Inside, there were four shackles, and more than ten small balls that could be attached to the shackles in order to store his excess of Source. The shackles were carved in a sophisticated pattern to make them look like broad bracelets. They had an intricate metallic weave around, finishing in two extensions that seemed bird heads whose beak, opened, gave room enough for the ball-like reservoirs to be placed. Their restrictive nature was easy to forget if it were not for their size and weight.

Sandor sighed, taking one of those on his palm, measuring it, feeling it. Its weight made him shiver. It had not passed much time since the last time he wore one of those, but he had found pleasure in living free, in feeling his Source running across his body, in burning it to exhaustion, in spilling it among his fingers when he was healing. The shackles always made the use of Source more restrictive, more painful, as if Source suddenly acquired a thicker quality, a viscosity that left a sore sensation behind, burning part of his inside. He had to readapt to it. Once again.

Without shying away, he opened a shackle and placed it on his left wrist. Part of his Source, which was simply flowing inside his body, was suddenly caught and dragged into the device, burning all over his arm and shoulder. He gasped. That feeling made him remember dark times of endless pain and blasts.

He took a second shackle and put it on his right wrist. He whimpered, as Source started to burn more and more rushing into the shackles. With some tears threatening to jump from his eyes, he closed the rest of the shackles around his ankles, and lent on the table, burying his head in his arms, breathing heavily. The restrictive devices were working perfectly, letting his Source flow into them and leaving a horrible sensation of lava all over his body. He remained silent for a while, feeling extremely sick.

When the night fell, the sound of the opening of the secret passage dragged Sandor back into reality. He jumped from his chair and rushed to the kitchen, pretending he had been there hours ago. He quickly started to chop some vegetables, keeping his shackles hidden under his sleeves. A precaution that was not going to last long.

As usual, Ifan went to the kitchen and gave him a peck on his temple, his gentle hand drawing a big circle on Sandor's back. After his routine greeting, he talked about the recruits he had trained that day and the needed preparations to leave Arx in good conditions before heading to Stormdale. Of course, Ifan was simply pretending he had not seen Sandor rush to the kitchen a moment ago, nor he was not seeing Sandor’s silent nods, lost in his own thoughts, inattentive. Ifan was not going to push him. It was good enough to see him break that terrible routine he had acquired weeks ago. 

Sandor had been strange since those damn books had resignified his past for the worst. The wound was not going to heal sooner, he knew it. But he was not going to judge how Sandor was dealing with it. As long as he could keep more or less healthy, Ifan was not going to ask anything else.

They ate stew and went to bed early. As usual, Ifan made a quick maintenance of his weapons and armour before going to sleep, while Sandor read a book in their bed. It was one of those teenager romantic novels that he used to devour when his attention was not focused on magic. Ifan would never understand that taste. But at least, returning to his old habits was a good sign. 

At the feet of the bed, Ifan turned a bit to look at Sandor. The wizard's long fringe was falling on the left side of his face, displaying with elegance those thick grey hairs in there. Ifan’s intense eyes finally caught Sandor's attention.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Ifan said when their eyes met, a playful tone in his voice.

Sandor twitched his lips in a crooked smile and scoffed.

Weapons ready, Ifan left them in a corner of the room, blew some candles out, and walked to Sandor, crawling over the bed to reach Sandor’s lips. A gentle, soft kiss, full of fear to break the fragile state of the wizard.

Encouraged by Sandor’s smile, Ifan left a trail of pecks from his jaw to his neck, finishing with a lick. A dry, long lick that Sandor accepted despite his silent cringe. He still was far from being accustomed to them. That tongue always brought him his worst memories, dragging that past associated with disgusting weights on his chest and oily hands to his warm present. But despite the repulsion, Sandor never told Ifan not to lick him. He could not do that considering how engraved this habit was in his personality. 

For Ifan, licking was the maximum expression of intimacy. It was the action that displayed his rawest desires to know him deeply. It was also an unconscious Elven reflection of a person who wanted to embrace his partner as a whole; seeing and feeling his pain and past. It was the expression to accept the good, the bad, the all of his partner. Of course Sandor would never ask him to stop doing it.

Besides, Sandor wanted to erase the sequels of his past, and for that, there was nothing to do but to reforge the experiences in his present, removing the repulsion in them, or getting used to it until it would never bother him again. He was tired of associating Ifan’s tongue with the darkest fragments of his past. One day, Sandor liked to think, the negative effects of his childhood pain would wear off. 

Ifan returned to Sandor’s lips, stopping just a second to see into his eyes and caress his cheek. 

_ Incredible _. 

A bit embarrassed under that pair of warm green eyes, Sandor pinched softly Ifan's beard and gently pulled him toward him, letting the moment escalate bit by bit guided by Ifan's intensity. The way Ifan’s tongue explored his mouth, how his rough hands lowered along his sides, caressing his ribs and sliding to his back to press him against him. Despite his scarred mind, Sandor loved all of that. He simply loved this man. 

Sandor hummed, a hand caressing Ifan's neck as the other sneaked underneath his shirt. However, the kiss stopped short. Puzzled, Sandor frowned at his partner who, still stroking along Sandor's arm, had found a shackle there. Ifan’s questioning eyes were enough for Sandor to extend his other arm displaying both wrists. Ifan knelt on the bed, holding Sandor’s hands as his eyes jumped from those metallic objects to Sandor's sad evasive eyes.

“Is.... is this what I think it is?” Ifan said, receiving a nod from Sandor. “But why?”

Slowly, Sandor broke their close contact, put a piece of paper on the page he had been reading a moment ago, and closed the book leaving it on his lap, his hands resting on its cover.

“I've reread those reports in more detail. Besides the bad memories, they have actual information about my Source. The experiments showed that... in this way--” He touched one of his shackles, “--I'm going to be able to increase my Source.”

“Why do you want more?”

“For several _ obvious _reasons. Voidwoken, healing, fighting. Take your pick. Besides, my other options are to blast or to drain myself regularly. And that will only make me blast faster and faster over time.”

Ifan sighed. Yes, he knew about all that, Sandor had been explaining it to him with small bits over the last days. It was a big mess without a good solution in the long term.

“How do you feel with them?”

Sandor shrugged, averting his look. His nervous smile flickered. “It's awful. But I'll get used to it.” He shivered as Ifan, extending a hand over the blanket and following all along Sandor's leg, touched another of these artefacts on his ankles. “Yes. I have them there too. They also leak a bit.” Sandor’s sight fell on the blanket and remained silent. A hint of humiliation made his lips twitch.

Ifan frowned, unsure of the meaning of that last comment. He only attempted to squeeze Sandor's shoulder and force him to look into his own eyes. Those sad brown eyes, averting his look, disturbed him deeply. He was never sure if they hid shame or sadness or pain.

“Are you alright, darling?” Ifan managed to say, even though he wanted to ask more, but he knew he would only dig into a deeper wound. _ Let him be. Let Sandor do what he needs to in order to find the comfort that so violently lost in these days. _

“I'm fine.” Sandor whispered, finding a bit of strength to fix his eyes on Ifan’s again, “Just give me time. I need you to be patient, please.”

Ifan smiled, honoured by the transparency of his request. He touched Sandor's head with his own forehead, enjoying the intimacy of the small space between their calm breathing. 

Sandor fidgeted his amulets for a while, as if he were thinking of something else, and then, he grabbed Ifan’s shirt collar, and pulled him against him once again, kissing him with intensity, forcing his mouth to open. Ifan’s eyebrows shot up but he did not complain.

Without resistance, Sandor pulled Ifan onto him and against the mattress. Understanding the danger of his weight, Ifan tried to draw back, but Sandor grabbed his nape and deepened the kiss; his hands nailed on Ifan's back. The book fell on a side of the bed, and the remaining candles extinguished with a magical breeze cast with a flick of Sandor’s wrist.

Ifan shivered in that kiss, overwhelmed by goosebumps. Sandor's legs spread, and despite the blankets being in between, he hooked them around Ifan's waist. It was then when Ifan perceived the sudden gathering of Source. An enormous amount similar to the one that had blasted him once. Like a deer in danger, Ifan drew back as soon as he could, desperate to find a way to cover himself, but the blast never came. Curious, he looked at Sandor laying on the mattress. With sweating temples, he was smiling in the middle of a wince, his Source tendrils intensely glowing on his skin as little arcs of Source jumped from the bracelets, harmless.

Ifan frowned, gently pushing away Sandor’s legs, and knelt beside him, “Sandor... What are you doing?”

Ashamed, Sandor pressed his lips in a thin line and looked aside, half of his face sunk on the pillow, “Let me be intense... it's safe, now. I can be intense. We can try-”

“That's not what I'm saying, for fuck's sake, Sandor. We promised not to-”

“I know, I know. Damn it.”

Ifan extended his legs on the mattress, his back against the bed headboard, and ran his fingers along his hair. He was now extremely horny and frustrated. He moved his head, and the cracking sounds of his neck surprised Sandor. 

“I don't know why you keep forcing yourself into these situations.” Ifan said.

Certain degree of annoyance tinged Sandor's tone, “I'm not an idiot, Ifan. I know you want this. Since a long time. And I want to offer it. And the only way to get over with it is to get used to it... but..”

“I told you, we need to go slowly.”

Sandor scoffed, “How much slower it can go? It has been more than two years and... I can't...”

“Things take time. Beside... do you think I can't wait?” Ifan made a brief visual contact with him, grabbing the blankets, “I've been alone many, many moons. I didn't need to do anything with anyone back then. Why would I _ need _ it now?” He tossed the blanket in the air, letting it fall on both. He slid down into the bed, and like Sandor, remained looking at the ceiling in the middle of the penumbra, their room only illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the enchanted window.

“That's not exactly what I’ve seen in the ship to Fort Joy.” Sandor twitched his lips, unconvinced. 

Ifan shook his head. “Er.. well, we are not counting the... the _ Dhaleram _ ritual.” 

“Are you telling me that you never followed a whim? A fling? Everyone has done it. Once, at least.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint. I didn't.” 

They turned their heads on the pillow to see each other, as if they were measuring a potential lie, a hidden secret in the statement, a mistake somewhere. 

“It's simple." Ifan continued. "I... don't find a casual night satisfying,” by the look on Sandor’s face, Ifan side smiled. “You don't believe me.”

Sandor blinked, returning his attention to the ceiling. It was easier to speak that way. “No, it's not that. It's just... well, _ yes _ . Forgive me, but it’s hard to believe it. I know you told me once about your past lovers... but.. maybe you forgot some unimportant _ adventures _...”

Ifan chuckled, “Please, Sandy. I’ve always been honest with you. I don’t twist my words. I don’t give a fuck about euphemisms. I’m not a scholar.”

Frowning, Sandor snapped his head to Ifan, who looked at him mischievously. With a quick movement, Ifan booped Sandor’s nose and laughed softly. Sandor twisted his lips agains, and the dark shadow of a dimple appeared on his cheek. 

“Still. It's hard for me to believe it. I was raised in a place where all men do that, whether they have a partner or not. It was almost a compulsion. And then, in the Academy, they were all the time _ thinking _about it, like desperate.... monkeys.”

Ifan chuckled and laid on his side, his head resting on his hand and his elbow sinking deeply in the pillow, he caressed Sandor's chest. “Well, I'm not a monkey. Take it like that.”

“Is that an Elven thing then?”

Ifan paused the movement of his fingers. Sandor always made that association of weirdness with elves. Maybe, not by chance. 

“Well, they accept more than one partner, but it's a thing that everyone in that relationship has to know. There aren’t hidden lovers, just... many husbands and wives. Mother Melati had two husbands. So yes, elves prefer _ partners _, it's true. They live so much, and their memories are so filled with their ancestors' experiences that they don't need to experience much and fast. They take their time for everything.”

Sandor turned a bit and fidgeted once again at Ifan's necklaces. He took the amulet he had given to him time ago and made it glow with Source. He was always charging it every time he had the opportunity. Then, Sandor focused on another necklace, the one with a ring in it. 

“Was Nueleth like that?”

Ifan blushed, a bit uneasy. Certainly, Nueleth had never been a person to take her time. She always rushed into her fancies, into her duties, into life itself, with all her intensity. He had learnt from her a great share about it. 

During their time together, Ifan had been her most intense fancy to the point to marry him some months later after meeting him. If that was not a fine example of how much she loved to rush into life he would not know what it could be.

Marriage did not calm things down. After every Divine Order campaign in which they used to spend months far away from one another, they celebrated their safe return in ardent and thirsty ways, unable to wait to reach their chambers. She would drag him to any dark corridor of the barracks, and corner him against a wall or a desk, taking him mercilessly. Her draconic passion was always there, insaciable, and he never complained about it, happy to please her in all the ways she demanded.

Taking her time was the least that Nueleth used to do.

Ifan cleared his throat, putting aside the hottest memories he had with her; they were not helping him in that moment. “She was always intense in all aspects of life. ”

Instead of a smile, the comment struck Sandor with deep fear, especially after witnessing, despite the penumbra, that fierce blush raising so fast on Ifan's cheeks. Afraid, Sandor turned to hide his face in Ifan's chest. “And the other love of your life? that man.”

Ifan closed his eyes tightly, as if a bad acrid taste had suddenly reached his tongue, “Ugh... please, don't call him _ that _ . He was a _ nightmare _ in my life.”

Still affected by Ifan’s reaction, Sandor lifted his head and looked at him as a scholar raised in Balurik; not exactly jealous, but a little bit poisonous. “But is it not true? He was _ another man _. Your last lover.”

“A _ nightmare _ , Sandor. A _ nightmare _.”

“Was he intense as well?”

“No. He was simply…” Ifan stopped to release a deep strangled sigh, “..._ violent _.”

Sandor frowned. 

As it always happened, the slight reference of that man turned Ifan's face into a mask of steel. Although Sandor wanted to see the small changes in that face to read beyond the words, it was impossible to do it. When speaking about Nueleth, Ifan was transparent, but when it came to this mysterious man, only hardness and questions were all that he could obtain.

“You never talk about him.” Sandor insisted.

“There is nothing to talk about.”

Sandor bit his lower lip, “You know... your secrecy on this matter makes me wonder...”

“You promised me not to talk about him in our bed.” 

“But we never can talk about him outside of it.” 

Ifan let out another sigh of frustration, “Alright. One day I'll tell you. I just... It's not... It's not like I don't want to share his memories with you... Well. Truth be told, I _ don't _ want to. But... It's... It's not like I treasure them. I don't want to talk about him at all, because I don't want to remember him. Never again. I don't want more of his marks in my flesh. If I only could simply forget all about him.”

Sandor's eyes moved quickly over Ifan’s chest, remembering all the scars spread there. With a simple nod, Ifan answered his silent question.

Understanding the burden of such a past, Sandor accepted the request and changed the topic. _ Slightly _. “You have been with many elves, too. Were they intense?”

Ifan closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. He could imagine the mess in Sandor’s mind. Most humans could never understand the difference, “No. It's not the same... it's a ritual, I can’t call it even sex. It's not mandatory either. It depends on the elf and on what they want me to keep from their memory. Because a _ Dhaleram _ can't grab everything from the flesh, so the honoured elves need to pick their most precious memories and imprint them on me. Sometimes those memories are about their partners and their intimacy. And there are not many alternatives to write _ that _ in my flesh.”

Sandor opened his eyes wide, hit by the implications. “If they want to keep the memory of a battle in your flesh... do they have to hurt you?” 

Ifan nodded, as if it were unimportant. 

Sandor blinked, horrified. “Do they torture you so you can have a version of their life in your flesh?”

“Sounds worse than it is.”

Sandor frowned, unconvinced. Raised in a brothel, he had been exposed to a lot of twisted facts and desires, but the more he knew about this ritual -- about this strange aspect of humans accepted into Elven culture-- the more horrified it looked to him. The use and abuse of a human body in such a careless way, increasing their vulnerability to demons, just to force it to have an ability that naturally was not there was madness to him. All that violence just to be _ remembered _ . It was _ savage _.

Reading part of his thoughts by just looking at Sandor's face, Ifan added, “Don't forget a _ Dhaleram _ chooses to be one and knows what it means beforehand. Elves are honest with the consequences of what they offer.”

Sandor scoffed, “Did you always know you were going to be prone to demon possession? To be tortured this way? To be used like that?”

Ifan’s facial muscles twitched. He did not like those disrespectful words towards such an honour that he had dearly been embracing for years. “Yes.”

Sandor sighed. This part of Ifan was always going to be a mystery hard to understand for him. “How is laying with an elf who wants you to remember their partner different from what you shared with Nueleth?”

Ifan chuckled. For him, making love was a beautiful mixture of emotions and flesh, while the ritual was just a passive incorporation of what an elf lived, completely unconnected with him, with his emotions and thoughts. 

“Have you ever slept with an elf?” Ifan said, wondering from where he could start the explanation. 

Sandor's mood changed, uneasiness contracting his lips. It always hurt when Ifan asked him those raw questions. “No. Clients have always been... humans. The Isles are mostly human, with some elves hard to find in the West, in the high mountains range.”

“When you let an elf imprint their memory on you, they are ritualistic. You offer yourself like an open blank book to them and you are not more than an observer of what they are showing to you. But when you make love with an elf... well... the connection is wildly deep. You know, their tongues… Nothing from you keeps secret anymore. They know everything you like and you want, what you fear. Everything is exposed. They are aware of your intensity too, you can't lie to them, they simply know it. So, you give everything, and in return, they give you everything too. The good, the bad, the all. No walls at all. No flesh keeping you apart from them.”

Sandor sighed tortuously. Well, at least something was quite clear. “Sounds intense, indeed.”

Ifan chuckled, “Yes, it is.”

“So you prefer sex with them...” Sandor’s tone made the sentence sound in between a statement and a question. “How can a fleshy human imitate all that intensity and extraordinary experience that elves have always given to you?” Sandor smiled nervously, full of tension and insecurities.

“You don't need to _ imitate _ anything.”

That answer was plain derail. Sandor scoffed, feeling that terrible bad omen rising from his lower back, “You can't tell me _ that. _Not after all what you have just said about the greatness of elves.” 

Understanding, Ifan took Sandor's hand and kissed its knuckles, “Laying with an elf is hard for humans too. I guess you don't truly get what means bark-like skin. _ In a bed _. It's rough, and hard, and it hurts. Most of the time. Pleasure from the skin is not something that comes with elves. If you are allowing an elf to do whatever they fancy with your squishy body, believe me, there must be much more else there to enjoy the experience.”

Sandor frowned. “But... You told me back then, in Lovrik's... I thought humans fancy elves-”

“They fancy them when they are chained. They are curious things, but just toys. They don't take them seriously. They don't honour them. They don't respect them.”

Sandor looked at a lost point in the darkness of the room, thinking for a moment. “I can't get it.” 

Ifan caressed Sandor’s cheeks, “See. Here? Soft,” Then, his hand ran along his chest, “Soft and warm,” Ifan gently patted one of Sandor's arse cheeks and pressed their groins with a mischievous look. “Softer.” His hand ran up to Sandor's waist and nipped with his fingers the fat around it. “Soft here too, right? Imagine all that against a trunk.” He left a peck on Sandor’s lips. “Have you ever kissed and hugged a tree? You'll get a hint.”

After a long silence of reflection, Sandor spoke, “So... you have an extraordinary connection with them. Emotions so intense that you don't mind their rough bodies. That only proves that they are more intense than anything provided by any human, right?”

Ifan sank his head in the pillow restraining a sigh full of annoyance. Sandor was a mule when it came to his bedroom insecurities. He truly needed to fix that, soon. He got closer to Sandor and whispered into his ear with his sweetest tone, “You are my _ first _ human and I love it. I don't think I will appreciate bark-like skin in the way I used to anymore, not after you.” Ifan surrounded Sandor's waist and poked the side of his belly. “See? I like this softness too much.”

Sandor chuckled looking for Ifan’s eyes. “No, you don't. That's why you are all the time torturing me with the damn training.”

Both laughed. 

“Ah. Speaking of which, you need to start soon.”

“Ugh... _ Iiifan.” _ Sandor hit softly Ifan’s chest and shrank against it, accepting that Ifan's past and elves were always going to be there, filling him with deep doubts and setting bars too high to reach.

[ ](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/187465320182/lairofsentinel-how-a-fleshy-human-can-imitate)

* * *

Lysanthir walked to the Academy, enjoying what was left of the day. The sun was dying in the West turning the sky red and orange, a warm spring-like breeze was blowing around, and the scent of the first blooming flowers filled the air. This was his favourite season. 

He entered the Academy nodding with respect toward Arhu, who was reading a heavy book in his hands, lent against one of the biggest windows of the main room. A young dwarf approached him and asked him something about a book. The whole place had a lot more movement than it used to. The apprentices and young scholars had been attracted to Arx, not just for its safety but for the spreading word that guaranteed that this new Academy would offer everyone honest chances of growth, no matter the race or the background of the scholars. 

Passing through new corridors and remodelled ones, he reached the Mestre's studio, and without knocking, he entered wearing his usual wicked smile.

In a couple of weeks away, they had to visit the Guardian's Keep, which had been turning his nights restless. The few attacks of Voidwoken against the city had been light, and just the patrolling groups outside the walls had been enough to deal with them. But Lysanthir did not want to count on their good luck forever. So he wrote down several improvements for the defence system that they had started to think about in their last council meeting. It was a simple draft that still needed to be checked by Engineer Sanders and Sandor himself. That was the reason why Lysanthir headed to the academy. Sandor’s approval on these improvements were needed — especially because he was going to be the one filling them with his Source — before giving them to the engineer to craft them. 

When he entered the studio, he only found a young dwarf, another of the many scholars around. He was reading some books on a tidy table. At Sandor's desk, Lysanthir found an elf he had never seen before. A dark old elf of long, white hair falling beyond his shoulders. His face had the wrinkles of a millennia. The unknown man had pushed two drawers of Sandor’s desk in a discreet way when he spotted Lysanthir. 

Lysanthir cleared his throat and looked at both individuals, "Excuse me, where is the Mestre?" 

“Not a clue.” The dwarf said, focusing on the book after a sneeze.

"I didn't see him in a while. Neither here, nor in the clinic." The old elf said.

Certainly, that was more than unexpected. Sandor had stopped showing up in the barracks since the return of his expedition. Everyone wagered that the man was isolated in his house or the academy, working without stop on the many recently acquired objects. But still yet, he could not go so far to neglect his clinic. That was so strange coming from him. 

Casual, Lysanthir approached the desk. Many reports and copies of some blueprints were spread on its surface, messily. He frowned focusing on the other elf. "And what are you doing here? Who are you?"

The man smiled, the corner of his eyes creased full of wrinkles. He rounded the table and offered his hand to Lysanthir, "My name is Nyw. Nice to meet another of my kind in the city."

Lysanthir smiled too, as wicked as he usually did. They exchanged a firm handshake. "Nyw? That's not Elvish."

Nyw looked down and gathered his hands, fidgeting his nails. "Life has been tough on me. I needed a new start. Let me bury my old name, please. After all, the _ Deathfog _ did it time ago."

Lysanthir's smile disappeared, and a wave of understanding changed his expression into a more serious one. It was only fair. "Have you been around for a while? I didn't see you when you entered the city."

"I live in the slums. I'm a refugee who was allowed to work here by this kind man you are looking for. Source is a gift that can be used in these fields as well, not only in war." Nyw spread both arms, as if he were showing the room itself.

Lysanthir frowned. "Did the Mestre accept you? Here?"

"Yes. He is a good man."

"Yes, he _ is _." Lysanthir paused, observing every detail of the elf. Despite his kind demeanour, the old man was incredibly hard to read.

"And you, _ Lethallin _, are you working for the city as well? did they offer you help when you needed it the most?"

Lysanthir scuffed. "I'm a representative of our kind in the Guardian's Council."

The man squinted his eyes. "But the Main Council is not placed in the Guardians' Keep?"

"Guardian structure is a bit relaxed. I prefer to stick in Arx. You know, more people to watch out, instead of a half-empty fortress in the middle of the desert."

"Oh, of course." The man smiled, closing some books and pretending to tidy them up. "You are more than a regular visitor in Arx, then. So, you may know about someone I’ve been looking for. I heard his name in the wind."

Crossed arms, Lysanthir raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Ifan Ben Mezd."

Lysanthir's jaw tensed. 

That name had an extra weight on the veteran soldiers that joined the Guardians. Its relationship with Silver Claw was not exactly a secret for many, but somehow, it was a gesture of respect to never let those names be linked outside the ranks. Everyone was aware about the political tensions between the different institutions in Arx; adding another source of friction with the presence of a mercenary of dubious morals was the least they needed. 

Besides, the fame of the terrible Silver Claw, as a legend, had been fed by bards with so many inaccurate descriptions, that unless someone had met him personally, nobody could conclude that Ifan was that infamous myth described in local songs. Although most people from the Eastern Rivellon did not know the link, new travellers coming to Arx were always an obvious danger. A lonely elf who lost everything in the _ Deathfog _, looking for Ifan could only mean problems. 

"By your reaction, I can tell you know him. I even daresay _ deeply. _" 

Puzzled by the tone of the last word, Lysanthir squinted at him. 

Nyw's pale eyes were piercing him, digging him. "You don’t need to tell me where he is. Just make me a favour. Help me to avoid his contact."

Now Lysanthir was truly confused. "What kind of favour is that?"

"One asked from an elf to another, _ Da'len _ . I know what he did. I know he was the responsible of the _ Deathf- _"

"He was tricked. He didn't make it on purpose. Lucian-"

Nyw raised his hand, slowly but firmly, spreading his scarred old fingers in the air, putting a sudden stop to Lysanthir's words, "I know. And I don't care. What's done is done, and he was the one responsible for that tragedy, aware of it or not. See, _ Lethallin _, I've lost a lot in the forest. And I know he is doing good things now. Maybe he is atoning. It's fine. I'm not looking for revenge. I'm too old and tired. Just promise to this old elf that you will keep my presence away from him. I don't want to see him. I imagine that you can understand."

Lysanthir looked aside, hesitant. He could not have more mixed feelings. But after a deep sigh, he spoke full of sincerity. "_ Ma' dirthara. _" [I promise you]

Nyw nodded. 

Lysanthir left the Academy and headed to Sandor's house. The sky was getting darker; the night would fall at any moment. Just around the corner of the Mestre's house street, Lysanthir stopped short. Despite the little light by that time, he could identify a figure in front of a tree, close to the Mestre's house. 

He looked at both sides. As usual, that dark dead-end street facing the sea and adjacently behind the barracks was empty. It was surprising that the Mestre, so pompous and inclined to fancy tastes, had accepted to live in such a humble hidden house in the discreetest corner of the city. It was a quiet place, that was undeniable, and maybe it was that reason which motivated the Mestre to live there. After all, he was a wizard, and it was well known that they tended to enjoy isolation. 

Like most people in Rivellon, Lysanthir knew that wizards were peculiar creatures, no matter their race. Their difference was so broad that most scholars considered them as part of their own race. Despite the rumours and the extreme gossip, Lysanthir had always thought that those ideas were a bit over-magnified. Yes, it was true; Arhu had always been the strangest creature he had found in his long life, but the Mestre confirmed more his suspicion. Sandor was more or less normal, even though people used to say that it was due to his young age for a wizard. Watching that figure beside the tree could make him think otherwise. 

Suspecting the shadow’s identity, he approached the scene with stealthy steps. A man, wearing an unmistakable pompous robe, was resting his forehead against that solitary tree. The figure's shoulders rose a bit hugging the trunk, and his face lowered, rubbing his cheeks against the bark. The more Lysanthir was getting close, the more curious he was becoming. He had lived centuries and had acquired an accurate perception of detecting common patterns in human behaviour. However, this was a complete anomaly. No wonder he was a wizard. 

When Sandor pressed his lips against the tree, Lysanthir cleared his throat. Sandor gasped, violently startled, and jumped back recoiling several steps of distance from the tree. Looking at the intruder with Source flickering eyes, he blinkered and let a deep heavy sigh out.

With his typical twisted smile, Lysanthir stepped in closer, looked at the tree, enjoying the effect that such silence was doing on Sandor, and then looked at him, pleasant. The wizard was unable to meet his eyes. 

“What are you doing? _ Exactly.” _ Lysanthir's silky voice pronounced the last word with extra pleasure. Sandor was sweating. 

“It's just... uh... spell... for, measuring the Source in... living creatures... I've been working... and... sometimes... I... I-I practice... this.” He cleared his throat, gathering enough will to finally look at Lysanthir straight into his eyes and pretend to be more relaxed, “I practice with this tree when I feel it right.”

Lysanthir's smirk broadened, “You were kissing that tree.”

And once again, too embarrassed to even keep the visual contact, Sandor averted his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line, “It... It.. was... an experiment to see which way seems more accurate.”

Lysanthir laughed, “Measuring Source... by kissing?”

“I know it may sound weird, but...um... I'm still working on that spell.”

For a moment, Lysanthir laughed loudly and lively, as some tears jumped from his eyes. When his chest stopped shaking, he lent on the tree, closer to Sandor. Gently, he placed a hand on Sandor's shoulder, and breathed out, releasing the last delicious tension left after laughing, “Well, it doesn't matter. Whatever. I've come to see you.”

“Me?”

“During these last few weeks… people noted your absence. I was just coming here to ask you how you were doing, considering it's been a long time since I saw you around. And also, I brought you this.” He extended the blueprints to him. 

“I'm.. I'm alright. Thank you for asking. It's been... some complicated weeks.” Sandor sighed, opening the blueprints in the air and skimming at it. “What's this?”

“I just wanted you to check them before giving them to Engineer Sanders. It's a couple of suggestions in the alarm system we were discussing in the council time ago.”

“I see. Interesting.”

They remained in silence for a moment as Sandor evaluated the blueprints. 

“Can I give you an answer tomorrow? I need to look for some books in the academy and... I need to...” Sandor tried to walk away so both could be walking and talking at the same time, but Lysanthir extended an arm to stop him. Out of the blue, the elf, serious, wiped out his twisted smile and changed his gesture into a more honest one. No trace of his usual mockery. 

“Yes, you can give me your opinion tomorrow, but use a less vague excuse to leave me here. I get it. Just let me tell you that what happened in the council will remain secret. It's not a matter of Arx's safety. And about Sanguinia Tell, I would count on her shutting her mouth. She may hate the Academy, and wizards, and all that, but she loves appearances, and spreading what happened in the council will harm her city's image more than yours. She would prefer to remove you from your position, instead. It’s subtler. If I were you, I’d be careful to give her more reasons for that. But, so far... take it easy. We all have our dark pasts, yours is not our business and we don't judge. Normally. Except when you are wasting our time with those endless explanations that nobody cares during the meetings. In _ that _moment, we are all judging you too much, I have to say.”

Twisting his fingers, Sandor chuckled, looking at the ground, relieved. 

Without his typical wicked gesture, Lysanthir smiled at him too. He gave some steps to get closer to Sandor and patted his shoulder. “We are also waiting for you to come and train more often. I need more excuses to kick Ifan's ass.”

“I'll do it. He has been bothering me with that too. Thank you.”

“Don't worry and… uhm... just keep my presence here as a secret,” Lysanthir said, looking for a moment at the tree. “I won't spread the gossip that you are into.... hugging trees, so you won't say a word about my... noble heart underneath all this bark.” He suddenly blinked, as if something had acquired meaning out of the blue. _ “Bark.” _ He looked at the tree again, and his grin became enormous, his fangs exposed shamelessly. 

At first Sandor was confused, but after a moment of reflection he slightly opened his mouth, eyes widened, and gasped. Was he exposed?

“You... you want to hug _ me _!?” Lysanthir's voice raised, loud and childish-like. 

Sandor put his hands in front of him, shaking them frantically, “No! No, no, no, no! No!” 

But Lysanthir, playful and mischievous, hugged him tightly whether Sandor liked it or not, and lifted him from the ground. Sandor felt the hardness of all his muscles compressing his shoulders and a pointy part of his wrist painfully sinking below his earlobe.

With all the fuss, the house's door opened suddenly, as Ifan stepped out in a rush and frowned at them, finding the scene hilarious and ridiculous. 

“What... What are... you two.. doing?”

Lysanthir did not release Sandor. Instead, he rested his chin on the wizard's head. “I think I will switch my object of affection, Ifan. This little man has more heart than you, cruel Ben-Mezd.” 

“Did you come back from the Academy?” Ifan asked Sandor.

“I still need to go.” He looked down, ashamed, separating from the elf too quickly and clumsily. Shoving the blueprints against Ifan's chest, Sandor stuttered, “P-Put them on the table. I'm... I'm going to the Academy, I'll be back in a moment.”

Confused, Ifan looked at the rolled papers in his hands. 

“He needs to check them for Engineer Sanders. We need them ready for tomorrow.” Carelessly, Lysanthir explained as he observed Ifan's casual clothes. Those were the ones he had only seen him wearing inside his own chamber. “I've been looking for him all evening.” Cutting out his jester mode, Lysanthir spoke more seriously, “How has he been doing? For real.”

Ifan watched Sandor's figure walking away around the corner of the street. “Struggling these weeks. He has been skipping sleep and meals, and only recently I could put some sense in that stubborn head of his.”

“Is he not dealing well with the shame? I mean, what Sanguinia let expose...”

“It's a bit more complicated than that. The expedition uncovered some things of his homeland, pretty nasty ones, that... Well, he is dealing with that the best he can. And I'm just taking care of him. As a good friend.”

Lysanthir smiled wickedly. “Just taking _ care _ of him, uh? Aren't you such a sweet _ friend _?”

Silent, Ifan only rolled his eyes. 

“Well. Much better for me. I was also looking for you,” He tapped Ifan’s shoulder with his pointing finger, “Because you weren't in your chambers, as usual.” Lysanthir smirked and took a roll of paper from his belt. It had a seal made of wax with Gareth’s sign. “I've received this from a war owl that has just come this evening.”

Ifan took the scroll and opened it. It was written with Gareth's calligraphy, clean and rounded, as a needless way to emphasise his Paladin nature. The message was just a reminder. In a couple of weeks they had to leave Arx to head to the Fortress.

* * *

“Make me some room, please.” Ifan said, holding a tray in his hands, “We need to get an extra small table.” He looked all over the living room, “You have been conquering the space of this house with your books in a wilder way than the Lizards do in the North.” 

Sandor chuckled, lifting his eyes from his reading and twitching his lips in a gentle disapproval. Then, he kept working on the blueprints while Ifan poured a bit of tea for both of them. 

Silently, Ifan slowly savoured his beverage getting his entertainment from observing Sandor. The wizard moved papers and books from a part of the table to the other, taking notes here and there, and sometimes remaining calm in a highly focused reading. In one of those many movements, Ifan spotted the shackle. That beautifully engraved accessory was far away from looking like a mere bracelet. 

When his eyes raised to Sandor’s face, he smiled. He was fascinated by that man in his middle age, with a terrible posture, and a body so soft that any fight would break his bones. And despite being the image of weakness itself, he had a power so enormous that had to chain himself to control it. There was so much honesty and bravery in choosing certain chains, Ifan thought.

Sandor sighed aloud, rolling up the blueprint and extending it to Ifan, “It’s ready, I think those are the best adjustments I can do. This is just a temporary system, after all. We will need to work on it much more deeply after returning from the main Fortress.”

“About that. Gareth sent me a reminder. Two weeks. You need to prepare the clinic and the academy for them to work on their own during your absence.” Ifan looked at the high pile of books from the expedition placed at the corner of the table, “And I don't know about Sanguinia. Do you have something to give to her? Just to get her mouth shut.”

“I'm still working on it, but... it will take time.” Sandor looked at that same corner, his eyebrows raised in annoyance and tiredness. Then, he reached his steamy hot tea and drank a bit. 

Ifan smiled. How whimsical life was. From a list of possible, actual outcomes for his own life, living with a scholar was probably the last one. No, no. Living with a wizard was. 

Keeping his own thoughts, he met Sandor's eyes and winked at him. 

“Something wrong?” Sandor said. 

“No. Nothing wrong at all. I'm enjoying the view.” His sight lowered all over the table once again. Books piled out, ink and feathers in the middle, papers and reports half open. “Food won't take too long. I think we _ really _ should get another table. A small one, just for us to eat. The smaller the better, so you don't find yourself tempted to invade it _ too _ with your books and papers.”

Sandor smiled, pretending to be ashamed. “Stop scolding me. I’ve already said sorry.”

Ifan smiled back, reaching out to caress Sandor's cheek. “I've never imagined in my life that I would end up with... a scholar. Domestic life is complicated. Especially when you want to find free spaces to put a mug.”

“Disappointed?” Sandor said playfully, his eyes reflecting the same devotion than Ifan’s own.

“More like surprised.”

Sandor sighed, his cheer tinged with a sudden dark mood. “I’m not a mere scholar, but a mysterious wizard, bringer of diseases, and Source drainer of Arx city.”

Ifan chuckled, “Indeed.” 

_ Wizards _. 

To be a wizard's partner was, indeed, something hard to believe for Ifan. Wizards were not exactly a race by themselves, considering that all races had their own share of wizards, but they were always considered outcasts no matter where they belonged to. It was a bit sad, thinking about it. Surrounded by legends and the reputation of historical figures like Zandalor (*) or Maxos (*), they always seemed to be unapproachable when they were not feared. However, all of them seemed to share a thick layer of sarcasm and bitterness, a life dedicated to magic that imprinted a particular way of speaking -- ancient words and strange structures --. Maybe Sandor was a bit more normal than the others. Or maybe the superstition did more wrong than good to the wizards.

“A gold coin for your thoughts?” Sandor said.

“I was wondering about wizards,” Ifan said as Sandor blinked, “I realised that, beyond the legends, I don't know how a person can become one. Do you train for that? Or do you make a human sacrifice and drink their blood?” 

Sandor scoffed.

“What's true and what’s not from most common rumours about them?” Ifan asked.

Sandor sipped his tea and smirked with that Balurik confidence that emerged from him when a situation demanded to talk about topics he mastered. “Well, ask away. You are in front of one.”

Looking at him from his eyes to his hands, Ifan drank a bit of his own tea and scratched his beard. “Forty-three years old. You said. But the rest of the wizards I've heard of... are... ancient.”

“Let me get older?”

Ifan frowned, struck by the sudden truth. “You mean... you will be like Zandalor or Arhu? Millennia older?”

Sandor smiled, wrapping his mug with both hands and hunching his shoulders in the process, “No. Probably not. I’ve lost my opportunity to perform the spell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once every two hundred years, the moon is blessed by Amadia, giving a power that allows us to perform a spell of longevity for our bodies. It only works for wizards. And from now on, with the death of the gods... I imagine it will not work anymore. I believe only elven wizards will remain as the ancient ones.”

“So... was Amadia important to you? Were you truly one of her followers?” Ifan frowned, remembering that time in Fort Joy when, during their time in the seeker refugee camp, Sandor had gibbered something about Amadia's books and scholarly things. He did not pay much attention back then, but he never imagined that such a gesture could mean that Sandor was a religious man after all.

He shrugged, “She granted power to wizards, and for that, I believed in her as long as it worked. But I never served her. Not much interest in serving anyone after... I was part of the academy.”

Ifan nodded slowly, letting the idea sink in his mind. “And how do you know you are a wizard? You train for it?” Then, he remembered those sickening reports by Das Vapour and their implicit meaning, “You are born like one… right?”

“Yes, you are born that way. A tutor, or any mage can sense it when you are a baby. Some can even detect it in the pregnant mother. If you are sent to practice magic at a young age, and a wizard tutor guides you, you become a fine wizard, powerful even and... able to control your powers.” He smiled sadly, looking down for a moment.

“What if not? What if you are born in a family which doesn't know what’s happening with you.”

“You may die living a miserable life.” That short answer made Ifan frown. “Because, if you don't let your true nature manifest, the magic inside you gets rotten, it hurts. I know it because when I was a child, and... I was living in... _ that _ place — you know — nobody cared about my abilities. Nobody there knew about magic or wizards. I only had to scrub the floor and... work at night. Untrained and unprepared, I used to blast often, experiment aside. And in the nights… with the devices, without training... It was painful. I mean, it hurt not only what they were doing to me, but also the Source in my body. I used to feel my flesh rotten. I needed to move something out, to make it explode, but then...” Sandor closed his eyes and made a pause cleaning the images in his mind. “What I want to say is that... the whole thing felt worse because I was a wizard without training.” When he opened his eyes again, he looked at a lost point in the table. “Being a wizard was what got me into a room with a client, but it was also what got me out of it, when Daniel met me. No matter his twisted reasons or his experiments. He took me out of that hell because I was worthy in another way… Even though… he crafted that hell in the first place… Anyways.” Nervous, he touched his long fringe and placed it behind his ear, several times. “Wizard or not, I was born in that place. If I were not a wizard... maybe I'd be still scrubbing floors and cleaning blankets. Or worse.” Suddenly quiet, Sandor pretended to drink a bit of tea but remained biting the border of the mug for a moment.

Ifan extended his hand and caressed Sandor’s forearm. “And I would have met you anyway, taking you out of it.”

With slightly trembling fingers, Sandor placed the mug on the table and smiled nervously, letting a tense sigh escape from his lips. “I'm sorry, you were asking me about Wizards.”

Ifan rubbed Sandor's shoulder with a warm smile as he looked into his eyes. After a moment of recovery, Ifan darted another question. “So. Wizardry is something you inherit.”

“It's common that wizards may have wizards children, but it's not a rule. You can be born in a family that never had one.”

“So, you can be a little farmer kid, wizard, feeling sick because you don't have training?”

Sandor nodded. “Correct. There are more wizards in this world that people want to acknowledge. When I walk to the street, here in Arx, I can sense them. There is a girl selling flowers. And a man who sings close to the Kemm's mansion. They are rotten wizards.”

“Can't they learn later?”

“You can try. But magic rots inside if you don't use it. If you wait for too long to learn...”

“What happens then?”

“You are unable to use magic at all. Rotten inside. Magic is gone.”

“Source included?”

Sandor nodded. “Included.”

“So, isn't there a link in that point? With the current situation, I mean. These people who have been losing their Source lately.... are they...?”

“No. It's not because they were rotten wizards. It's another phenomenon. But unaware wizards will lose their ability to use Source in these times. That’s true. And that's why I didn't worry about the first isolated cases of Source fading. I thought they were just manifestations of rotten wizards.”

Ifan wide open his eyes just for a fraction of a moment. That was a lot of weird information and revelations. People who would consider elves the strangest creatures certainly never met a wizard. And then, the thought of elves reminded him about what had happened hours ago. 

“Sandy. By the way, what was all that with Lysanthir, today?”

Sandor placed the mug on his lips and drank it slowly, looking at some books on the table, pretending to pay attention to something else. Then, he spoke, “I needed these books from the Academy, to translate all this. I simply found him in front of our house...”

“Was he stalking us?” Ifan's unbelieving tone was tinged with fear.

“No. No. He was more like... coming home. He needed to bring me _ this, _after all.” He pointed out the blueprints.

“And he simply hugged you? That's really strange coming from him. I mean, he is weird, but not so much.” 

A bit ashamed, Sandor kept pretending to read, averting Ifan’s eyes. He would know he was hiding something. “He gave me some words of courage after the event in the council. But that's a secret. He doesn't want anyone to know he is a good man.”

Ifan laughed. “He is nut odd. I told him I was taking care of you. I think he found my presence here a bit strange.”

“Strange?” Sandor smirked, finally looking at Ifan, unable to believe that Ifan considered that they were still successful in hiding their relationship. To Sandor, Lysanthir was just playing with them. 

By the sarcastic look of the wizard, Ifan raised an eyebrow, “Don't you think so?” 

Sandor shrugged and kept writing. Some people loved not to see the obvious, and he was not going to break that for Ifan.

Ifan took both empty mugs and moved his neck. A popping sound cracked the air. “Anyway, I'll prepare our dinner.”

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477). 

**Source Core:** [Half-headcanon]. Considering that some enemies can drop [ Source orbs ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Source+Orb) , I headcanoned that the main power core of a Sourcerer is their _ Source core _ , some kind of Orb inside their body that contains liquid Source and works like the physical "pool" of Source that we usually see in the game as a "source-bar" under the character portrait. This concept is inspired by seeing those liquid Source puddles around corpses of Sourcerers, as if such "container" of their liquid Source is broken once they are dead. I also headcanoned that this Source Core can be damaged when the Sourcerer uses their powers beyond their own limits, as we saw in-game with Malady, spitting liquid Source in the deck of the Lady Vengeance after a great effort [which can even kill her, as it may happen during the crash in Arx]. With all those details, I assumed this is the fisionomical reason behind the Source "pool" and those weird liquids spread in the game. The Source Core usually is rigid, but in Sandor's case it is particularly flexible, allowing him to expand it and contain a lot of more Source than a common body could, but its flexibility also gives him his problematic instability. [I'm a lore-freak to the _ core _, I know. I need reasons for everything.]

**Maxos** [Lore in general, [ Divinity: Dragon Commander, Divinity II: Ego Draconis ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Maxos) ]. Historically, he was a great wizard of Rivellon. In ancient times he was an ally to Emperor Sigurd and ruled the Battle Tower on Sentinel Island before disappearing without leaving a clue. Dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge above all else-- specifically related to dragon knowledge-- he refused to officially side with anyone during the Wizard Wars. Although he generally opposed the Black Ring as they acted as obstacles to his research work, he nearly killed [ Behrlihn ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Behrlihn) twice. At some point, Maxos developed the ability to grant the status of Dragon Knight to others, a power that up to that moment was only possessed by the dragons themselves. 

**Zandalor** [Lore in general, [ all Divinity games ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zandalor) except DOS2]: Ancient wizard of great importance in Rivellon. Friend of Arhu.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

In less than half a year, Gareth had managed to build the Guardians' Keep, a vast bulky structure standing out at the end of the peninsula of Stormdales. The sea, extending behind it, added a high strategic value forcing any potential attack to be focused in the front of the Keep itself. It was an excellent place to resist with a good view of the movement of the enemy coming from afar. The opening to the sea could eventually offer a safe retreat in case of need, but the main purpose of this building was to defend the line to the very end.

So far, the Keep’s docks were still under construction. It was obvious that Gareth had not conceived the fortress only by its belligerent benefits but as means for ship transport as well. The transportation of goods from Driftwood was easier by sea than crossing the complex range of mountains of The Dragon's Spine.

  
  


The council meeting started with a brief exploration around the Keep in order to show its characteristics to the highest ranked Guardians. Its potential could be even stronger taking into account the revolutionary advance that Engineer Sanders (*) was going to provide if his project of flying machines were successful.

His prototype had been developed for years during his time in the Divine Order. It had competed with Hannag’s project: the _Deathfog _which, sadly, got the massive support of the Order, and therefore, its resources. Engineer Sanders simply had to abandon his own idea. However, that was part of the past. New times required new approaches, so now his project was revitalised and improved due to Fane's contributions. The prospects were extremely good on this matter.

During the meeting properly gathered in the Keep’s main room, Sandor boosted Engineer Sanders' idea with the concept of his black mirrors, considering that Rivellon would obtain their best transportation system if he could make them functional. The combination of small flying machines carrying black mirrors, spread to different points of Rivellon, was going to change the concept of war strategy radically. The description of this project was accepted with great cheer by almost everyone during the Guardian meeting. With the exception of Ifan.

The next topic to discuss was the fading Source. It was a problem that deeply worried the council, but for which they had no details beyond what Sandor had already informed for months. The lack of new knowledge to understand its true cause and find a solution were disturbing.

Extra topics analysed during the meeting covered the strange movements of the Lizards in the Ancient Empire and their disastrous politics after the assassination of the leaders of several Houses. They also discussed resources, deciding — thanks to Guardian Thrash’s offer — that Driftwood would become the main supplier of all Guardian's posts. The tactical knowledge and most research on new weapons were going to be mainly focused on Arx and the Bloodmoon Island, where the most diverse scholars were gathered.

By the end of the week, new military strategies and Source-combat-techniques were taught by DeSelby and Lysanthir, sharing with other fellows the best ways to destroy Voidwoken with a low amount of Source. It was a set of useful tricks since the fading Source was turning into an unavoidable challenge for their soldiers. They also announced that most of those techniques were detailed in a draft of a manual that they were still working on. As soon as their responsibilities could leave them a little of free time, they were going to imprint rough versions of it and spread them in each Guardian post. More polished versions of it would have to wait for more peaceful times. The proposition of the manual, even though it was strange, was presented as an efficient way to homogenise the institution, giving guidelines about defence, discipline, and advice.

That was the last straw for High Paladin Hardwin. He had been complaining during the previous days for giving Arx the leadership of tactical and military power. He could not stress more his deep concern in Arx's military techniques under the command of an ex-mercenary. His mistrust changed into outrage when Ifan talked about his Guardian's techniques manual. For the paladin, decades of martial arts and self-discipline could not be taught in a few pages, even less if they were written by an ex-Lone Wolf accompanied by a weird elf. The friction between the High Paladin and Ifan had been escalating during the whole week, and the announcement of the manual was the inflexion point for both of them. Old grudges resurfaced in their loud exchange of words, arguing and derailing more often than not their focus on Guardian’s matters. Gareth had to intervene to cool the situation down and put an end to the meeting. It was good that the end of the meetings were approaching.

After such an intense week and a half, the meeting finished, and a new one was settled for the next year. Everyone had been taught and informed about the main strategies used in different parts of Rivellon and the Voidwoken’s new behaviour recently studied in the North. With their objectives completed, the broad majority of Guardians could return to their posts to keep on their duties. Only the highest ranked ones had to remain a bit longer by direct order of Gareth. However, High Paladin Hardwin did not obey and left Stormdale immediately afterwards.

  
  


At the end of the last meeting of the year, different Guardians from the four cardinal points of Rivellon gathered in small groups inside the room, giving their goodbyes and joking with others. The atmosphere was, in general, a friendly one as long as the High Paladin Hardwing was absent. In a corner of the main council room, Ifan patted Thrash's back, a gentle jovial smile on his face.

“Unbelievable offer you got us there. Thank you, friend.” Ifan said with a one-sided smile. “Good to know you are going to share all those resources with the rest of us. That will give us a lot of advantage.”

The dwarf scratched his nape, “My old skills ended up being more useful on this matter than I would have thought.”

Ifan raised an eyebrow and squinted, “I hope you are not using your current position to smuggle _other things_ too, uh?”

The dwarf laughed openly. “I wish to. But no, only wood and ores. I see the importance of this. Don't worry. I won’t screw it out.”

They locked each other's eyes in an understanding look; Thrash's words were serious. Then, the dwarf patted Ifan's arm and with that gesture as a goodbye, he returned to Driftwood.

As minutes passed by, the rest of the people left; only Ifan, Lysanthir, DeSelby and Sandor remained in the room, their postures relaxed by then. The warriors kept in their seats, while Sandor started to gather all the blueprints, papers, and artefact models he had used in his explanations during the meeting.

“So, we have just been witness to what Saheila has been talking about Ifan for so long .” Lysanthir said, smirking, his eyes jumping to each of those present, lingering on Sandor a bit longer. However, Sandor’s attention was focussed on gathering the elements spread on the table.

“Ah. What does that mean?” Ifan frowned.

“That fight with Hardwin, my. That was extremely hot.” Lysanthir’s tone made Ifan roll his eyes, “A winsome man who can gather different worlds in his flesh. A silver tongue, charming and eloquent as few, but unable to back off due to a bit of conflict.”

DeSelby looked at the elf narrowing her eyes, “Saheila says all that about the commander?”

The elf looked up at the ceiling, as if he were thinking for a moment, and tilted his head, “She does. Or was it me? Well. Maybe it was not her. But in any case, it's hard not to talk about him.”

Sandor dismantled the artefact models and placed their pieces in a small box. While pretending to be focussed on his task, he was listening to their conversation. His face was extremely neutral, an old Balurik trick to prevent his annoyance from becoming transparent. Listening to that elf was always a source of inner conflict in his mind. Lysanthir was shameless; despite being centuries older than any human, he behaved like a teenager most of the time.

“You, stop mocking me.” Ifan frowned and crossed arms.

“Please, Mestre. Share your wisdom with us. Don't tell me he is not a wonderful man to talk about?” Lysanthir said looking at Sandor, a hand extended in the air towards Ifan's direction.

Sandor stopped his movement, blinked twice and looked at him. That elf was always doing _that._ He was always dragging his attention to mildly uneasy situations, always playing in the thin line that separates ill-intent from silly jokes. Sandor looked at Ifan and, unable to refrain the remnants of Balurik nature in his personality, he smiled and played along.

“Indeed, I have to agree,” Sandor said with his deadpan face, looking more scholarly than ever.

Ifan rolled his eyes.

“You see, Commander Ben-Menz? People talk. And they say you are a handsome and wonderful man yet very _lonely_… It's a pity to leave you like that, without love and care. I bet you must be like wine; better over the years.”

Discreet, Sandor looked at Ifan while DeSelby laughed. Lysanthir was such a clown.

“I know you were raised among elves and you have a fine taste in them. May I offer you the exquisite taste that nobody else would give you in this life?” Lysanthir grinned not without a hint of his typical wickedness. Sandor faked a smile, more like a nervous reaction, as a wave of insecurities ran deep into his soul. Now he was more than unease. He arranged more papers in small piles trying to make his presence fade from the room.

“Don't bother the commander.” DeSelby said, wiping out her tears after such a long laugh, “A man like him is more interested in elven women, I bet.” Then, she looked at Sandor, as if her words had been meant as a question and she was waiting for _his _answer.

Sandor felt the pressure of everyone’s looks on him. He nodded emphatically. “I must agree.”

Frowning, Ifan saw those Balurik eyes towards him, just for a fraction of a second. Sharp, dangerous, a little bit poisonous.

DeSelby pressed a finger on her chin and looked up. “I remember you were married with a tough elven paladin. I was a recruit back then... but she was admired by every paladin.”

Ifan's face softened at that memory, a small, sweet smile curved his lips as his hand immediately reached his necklace. _Nueleth_.

“We can honour her in the elven tradition.” Lysanthir said, sticking out his tongue and moving its tips ridiculously.

Ifan rolled his eyes. “Can you both leave my personal life aside?”

“We've been fighting Voidwoken for so long. We should fraternise a bit. Release the stress. They are not prohibited among the ranks. It's not written in your manual, anyway.” Lysanthir said.

“We don't have time for this.”

“Everything would be easier, Commander, if you simply admit it.” DeSelby said, once again laughing at the same time she tried to stop it in vain.

“I prefer my personal life quite out of my professional one.”

“Mn, now, that’s funny. I wonder what that means...” DeSelby said, clearing her throat after so much laughter, "You married a paladin who worked with you, after all."

Ifan sighed and blushed. Why did he have two teenagers as his right hand?

“It is certainly… _funny_.” Sandor said, taking the last papers and books and remained standing with his chin slightly lifted, displaying all his Balurik pose.

Ifan raised an eyebrow. “Uh? Now are you joining them in the mockery?” Ifan crossed his arms and looked at Lysanthir, “Look. I know you mock me for my reserves, but soldiers need to focus. We are not fighting a standard war. This is a Voidwoken war. You can't hug around your comrades and make mistakes during the combat.”

Sandor, without moving his posture, raised an eyebrow. His face was darting at him a question crystal clear: _what are you talking about?, _then he spoke, “I've seen mercenaries combining both in ridiculous ways.”

Ifan gave him a soft black look, a non threatening warning that they shared daily when joking around. It was part of the playful rough game that wolves play with others from their own pack. “_Ridiculous_?” Ifan snorted. “Anyway. Mercenaries can do whatever they want. But Guardians from this new Order have to respect the law. Honour it. Personal life out of the armour.”

“But wearing only armour must have its charm as well.” Lysanthir said, winking at Ifan.

DeSelby barked a loud laugh, showing with such gesture that her wife probably knew too well about armours and charms. Ifan fiercely blushed and shook his head in disapproval after understanding that hidden meaning in DeSelby’s laugh. However, deep down, he was completely pleased. No high rank should be sacred. This new image of a commander that inspired respect on strategic matters and yet could be part of a relaxed and friendly atmosphere to joke about him was what he always wanted. Comradeship was the best bond that fighters could forge.

He looked at DeSelby, “I'm going to tell your wife how nosy you’ve turned lately into my personal affairs. I think she’d love to know that you are more than willing to spread around details of your own personal life. She is such a reserved woman… ”

And now, it was Ifan who barked a laugh, while DeSelby twitched her lips. Observing the scene and still smiling at the joke, Sandor caught Lysanthir intensely looking at him. His lips were curved in a smug smile that was not friendly but a looming danger. Sandor raised an eyebrow, and Lysanthir only squinted at him, making his twisted smile bigger. Then, the elf broke the eye contact and returned to the conversation. A disturbing feeling remained in the back of Sandor’s mind for the rest of the day.

* * *

“It has been a long day in a long, long week.” Sandor said, walking by his horse on a side and by Ifan on the other.

“I'm sad you have to leave.” Ifan said. Gareth had ordered for the higher ranks and local commanders to stay. There was still too much to arrange in terms of bureaucracy and strategy all over Rivellon.

“I know. It's a pity I can’t stay with you, but Tarquin’s message was clear. They need me in Arx.”

That morning, the necromancer had sent a war owl informing him about an emergency with new silent monks appearing in the city. They were going to weaken the already fragile relationship with Sanguinia Tell.

“I know,” Ifan sighed.

Ifan accompanied Sandor all across the small part of desert whose borders were skirting by a forest. It was a path that took some hours of walk until reaching a trade route from which heading to Arx was safer. They could have done it by horse but they preferred to walk. In this way, they could have some time alone.

Since they arrived in the Fortress, they could never have some private time together, not even at night. Their rooms were far away from one another, and in order to avoid spreading unwanted rumours, they preferred to keep their distance in the Keep as well. They knew Sanguina Tell's influence had a far reaching grasp outside Arx. These precautions had also been suggested by Gareth who wanted to avoid any extra political conflicts that may affect Arx. They had enough problems with the Voidwoken alone.

When the desert part ended, they walked through the forest, enjoying its calmness, the sound of birds hidden among the trees, and the fresh smell of grass and moss. It was a nice change since the Fortress, made of old stone, had accustomed their noses to its usual humid scent. Among the trees, they found another of those well-known pillars; a monolith with a crystal on its top levitating with Source. Ifan took some seconds to get close to it, folded his hands, and gave some thoughts in silence to those who had fallen in such an unknown place.

They resumed their walk, and when the forest grew thicker, Ifan spoke softly. “You weren’t very helpful, back then.”

Lost in the meaning of such words, Sandor turned to look at him, frowning.

“The mockery after the end of the meeting.” Ifan clarified.

“Ah, _that_.” Sandor chuckled, “What did you want me to do? You are the one who said we have to pretend we are just... mere comrades. Old friends met in battle. Bringers of law and order. _Guardians_.”

The resignation in Sandor's tone broke Ifan's heart a little bit. He stopped him by touching his forearm. “Did this hurt you? I'm sorry. I don't like this either. I've never hidden a partner in my life. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm proud of you, not ashamed.”

Sandor smiled, his look falling on the ground. “Yes, I understand. It's simply... I just don't believe we are convincing anyone. Only that.”

Ifan stepped closer, his hand running along Sandor's waist, “But you know I can't...”

“I know, I know. I understand, Ifan.” He patted Ifan's cheek and pulled him gently so both continued walking, “We talked about this. If you think Sanguinia Tell will give me troubles… it's fine. I trust in your judgement. We can keep pretending... as long as the facade lasts.”

“Believe me, I'm the one who hates this situation. It's not my style. But… after what Sanguinia did to Nueleth… To the Order... She is a politician with power, she knows how to talk and to whom. Give me a rascal I can fight against, a mad person to put down with a weapon, even a lad in a brawl. I can manage those. But her kind? I don't know how to deal with them without putting a knife in their chest.”

Sandor sighed, “What did she do in the past to be so afraid of her?”

“She hated Nueleth. I don't know if it was because she was an elf, or she was a high ranked paladin, or maybe because she was my wife. Sangunia never allowed her to make the slightest mistake. And she was always pushing to remove other races from the Order. Imagine her power that, months after Nueleth's death, Sanguinia got her objective; only humans were allowed to be part of the Order.” Ifan huffed, releasing the dark emotions that those memories tended to bring, “She hates wizards. She'll be even harder on you. She already hates you.”

Looking down, Sandor shook his head. The last scandal in the Arx council was not helping either. Shy, Sandor caressed Ifan's hand with his little finger, concealed, “I'm fine. We have our little house, after all. But I can see this situation brings more troubles to you than to me, so far. Lysanthir is one of them… ”

Ifan laughed. “He’s not a trouble. He just loves mocking me. And DeSelby loves to join him. Everyone knows about the interest that Sanguinia Tell has in me, so their tease is even better… for them. They just love laughing at me.”

“I was surprised to witness that. To joke about a superior? Unprecedented.” Sandor remembered the sacred images of the oldest scholars that had to be revered in Balurik Academy. Speaking to them in a casual tone was unthinkable, much less to joke about them. “That's not something you often see in any institution.”

“That was the old Order style. I don't want to repeat the same mistakes. I prefer soldiers that can think on their own and won't idealise their superiors. I want them to joke and avoid taking anything as sacred. Especially a superior. That makes them more responsible for their own decisions. And to me… it makes me push beyond my own limits. I can't rely on their blind obedience expecting them to follow the chain of command, no matter what.”

“Is that not dangerous? Superiors that can be easily questioned?”

“Not _easily_. That's the superior's responsibility. But they can be questioned more often.”

Sandor's lips twitched, and a small dimple appearing on his cheek emphasised his gesture full of doubts.

Ifan continued, “They know the difference between a battlefield and a common situation of daily life. They have different mindsets for each of them. Outside the battlefield, it's fine to be chill friends and comrades.”

Sandor frowned. “That's stupid.”

The insult made Ifan raise his eyebrows and snapped his head at him.

Sandor added, “You allow them to mock a superior, to be close to them. But then, you said this morning that ridiculous speech of non-fraternisation policy among Guardians because... relationships have to be _out of the armour_.”

“Sharp as usual.”

“No. It’s not even a sharp remark. It's obvious. That's the problem. It’s obscenely obvious.”

Ifan looked at him out of the corner of his eye with a half smile. That man never forgave a logical inconsistency. “Look, the problem is….It's too easy to do stupid things when you love.” He dropped those words and remained silent for a moment, observing Sandor. “I want them to be comrades, to strengthen their bond, but not too much to be trapped into that potential decision of putting their loved one first instead of the protection of the people. I want them to put their duty first.”

“And what do you put first?”

Ifan sighed with deep annoyance, observing the canopy ahead; a long silence filled the air. Sandor's Balurikense side had been getting stronger in his personality since that unexpected and shameful exposure in Arx council happened. Now, he was displaying that abrasive side more frequently.

“I hate when you do that.” Ifan said.

“Don't blame me. You are the inconsistent one here. I’m merely _questioning my superior_. And checking his ethics. Nothing more. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

Ifan smirked, baring his fangs. _What an asshole Sandor could be when he wanted to_. “Well, and you? You are a Guardian too, what do you put first?”

“The smartest decision at a given time in a given context.”

Ifan rolled his eyes and huffed. "Uh. Fancy way of speaking. Scholar bullshit.” Then he smiled smugly, still focused on the canopy, “Like that time you wanted to heal Lohse desperately in the middle of the battle and you end up slipping into Voidwoken ichor. Smartest decision ever. Camouflage is called, right?”

Sandor scoffed. “Of course you were going to bring this up. It's getting old, you know?”

Ifan chuckled, patting Sandor's back several times and resting his hand on his nape. They knew they could not answer that tricky question. It was always a betrayal to the Guardian oath. They could not do anything on that matter. After all, inconsistency was one of the main human features.

“Did Tarquin tell you something else about the clinic?” Ifan asked, derailing the topic. There was no point in fighting about that rhetoric. Both of them knew it.

“Only about the new silent monk appearing, and some apprentices not being too efficient with healing. I need to train more healers as soon as possible, otherwise, I’ll exhaust and lose my Source. Ironically.”

Ifan released a soft laugh. “Blasting healing waves to everyone. New way of healing. Balurik's style.”

“If only.” Sandor’s smile flickered, “But what worries me the most is the silent monks. They are appearing everywhere. Doctor Swann (*) told me that he is also gathering them in the Isle. Are you sure there is no activity in Fort Joy anymore?”

“Yes. Guardian Yarrow (*) promised me to never allow such monstrosity to happen again in her area. She had enough with her father. We can count on that.”

“This silent monk is the third one we have in Arx. Forth one if we count Tarquin’s Gheist.”

“Tell me honestly, Sandor. Can they truly be healed?”

Sandor stopped his steps, looked down and raised his fist showing his shackle to Ifan.

“I need more Source to answer that. By the moment, I just keep them in the clinic. But I'm more than aware that it's just a matter of time until they bring problems. I know.” Sandor said, noticing Ifan's tilted head. “Yes. And you know the _name _and the_ surname_ of the problem.”

Ifan sighed. Indeed he knew it. It was always _she_. Damned Lady Tell. They resumed their walk.

"I'm... I'm not going to return to Arx in a couple of days.” Ifan hesitated a bit before continuing; it was impossible to delay the news any longer, “I don't have the details, just Gareth's jabber, but so far, what he briefly told me was that he is planning to send me around Rivellon. To check several sections of Guardians, how they train, what weapons they have, the discipline they use; many things. Fort Joy probably will be one of them. I'll keep an eye on any information about more silent monks around there."

“Oh. That’s… the bureaucracy you were talking about a moment ago?” Sandor asked, receiving Ifan’s silent nod as an answer. "Well. That's... unexpected. We'll have to protect the city without its commander. For a... long time?" Sandor’s tone lowered, an unmistakable shade of sadness tingeing his voice.

"DeSelby will be in Arx in a couple of days. She is in charge of the security. She loves that position more than me. And you will be blessed with the absence of Lysanthir too. I think Arx will be fine. Don’t worry."

Sandor blinked as an invisible blow hit his chest making him breathless for a fraction of a second. He swallowed hard. “Is he going with you?”

“Yes. Saheila's representative and all that, you know.”

"This trip… how long would it take?"

"Still we need to talk about the details with Gareth, but I think it will be a couple of months. You know. Travelling is slow."

Sandor straightened his back, lifted his chin, and smirked, ignoring the sudden fear that had taken over his mind. Then he added, "The more reasons to encourage the development of the black mirror."

Ifan raised an eyebrow but said nothing, darting again that fake black look that pretended to be threatening. He was never going to accept that such cursed mirror could eventually be useful. His guts were always pushing him to run away at the sight of the dark artefact.

They kept walking for a while, in silence, passing by another monolith. On the peak of the obelisk-like structure, a fragment of a crystal was floating over, sustained by a vanishing thread of Source softly coloured in purple. They were almost sure that this pillar had not been there on their way to the Keep, but they did not mind it at that moment. It was probably a monument that had been overlooked before.

When the safe road to Arx was close, and the thickness of the forest diminished, Ifan stopped and faced Sandor. He observed his sad brown eyes for a while, and thumbed his cheek. He wanted to kiss him.

“What are you planning to work on during this time that councils won't require your expertise?” Ifan asked, a playful tone tingeing his voice.

Sandor blinked, surprised at the fancy way of speaking that, slowly, Ifan had been acquiring and blending with his own. He smiled, proud of his own influence on him, but said nothing about such detail. “I'll train with DeSelby harder than ever. You'll see my muscled body after your return.”

They looked at each other for a second, serious, and then they burst into a laugh that left a lingering smile on their faces.

Sandor continued, “No. No, really. I'll keep on studying the Black Mirror. I've heard there is a person who can help me with that in Driftwood. I will gather information about how and where to locate her. Maybe even meeting her, eventually.”

The frown in Ifan's face showed a clear dislike for the plan. “Why so obsessed with that blasted thing? Aren’t you scared of the God King?”

“We don't know if it's inherently related to the God King. And so far, it's been safe.”

Ifan looked at the canopy and sighed. “We found that thing in the Lone Wolves camp, related to a corrupted elf, leader of the Black Ring back then. And you are telling me that it's not related to the God King? I thought it was only me the one with _stupid inconsistencies_.”

Sandor placed his hand on his own chest in an over-dramatic gesture. “Ouch.”

Ifan shrugged, “I'm not the only one who can be questioned. It’s only fair.”

Smiling, Sandor shook his head slowly, there was nothing he could say that would convince Ifan about the black mirror, “Still, it's safe. We saw that so far.”

“They always say it's safe. Until it’s not.”

“We ended Divinity and kept at bay the God King. If this piece of mirror were related to him, he could have used it to his advantage already. But he didn't. Besides, there are not many options, Ifan. Voidwoken are still a threat. The God King is still out there. We need to understand as much as possible the Source, the Voidwoken, and any tool we can use. You listened to me today, in the meeting. If I can make them work, and we add them to the flying machines, we can have a powerful means of transport. Wars have been won just by transport strategy. This is not a whim.”

Ifan winced. He understood that more than anyone, but it was so dangerous. Using the Covenant's tools could never be a good idea. _Never_. “I didn't lose you with the madness of Divinity. Don't make me lose you with this."

Sandor sighed, his eyes looking down. That was how Ifan always disarmed him. “Ifan. It's a _mirror._ The worst thing that can happen is depressing me with the reflection of my grey hairs.”

Ifan broke his serious demeanour and chuckled, not convinced but warmed by the joke. He caressed that grey lock in Sandor's fringe, sensing its rough texture on his even rougher fingertips. He liked those grey hair, they were a sign of time, of getting old. It was the first time his partner was ageing alongside him. But Ifan did not linger in the thought. Getting old was always his least favourite topic to think about.

By looking over his shoulder toward the road, and making sure there was no one, Ifan got closer and placed both hands on Sandor's waist, pulling him.

“Well, we’ll see each other in a... when? In more than a couple of months, maybe?” Ifan said.

“My plans to visit Driftwood are not immediate. I won't leave the city before you come back. We still need to work much more in the alarm system.”

Ifan nodded, silent, and leant in, kissing Sandor and hugging him with his dearly passion. The kiss, long and slow, deepened, gently playing with their tongues. Ifan released some joyful sounds coming down his throat before breaking the contact, and reluctant, still nuzzling Sandor's nose, he whispered, “I'll miss you”

Sandor drew back, and patted his beard, “Me too. Take care.” He cupped Ifan's face once more and, in his tiptoes, gave him a last peck on his lips. He rode the horse and followed the road to the North. Ifan saw his figure becoming smaller in the horizon and sighed. He was truly going to miss him.

* * *

The trip to Driftwood was done in Guardian Thrash’s big ship. Joining Papa Thrash to his return had been more than a good idea. Not only because travelling through water was always faster and safer than walking across the Dragon's Spine but because it gave Ifan time to appreciate his last years.

There, leant on the handrail of the ship, observing the sea and the monotonous movement of the waves, he remembered his time in the Divine Order, in the Lone Wolves, in that group of crazy people that had worked hard to stop Divinity, in his present life in Arx. So many wonderful and painful memories.

He smiled at the horizon, stopping his thoughts exactly there, in Arx, in his present. From the city of the Betrayer, Arx had turned into a place he could call _home_. Again. He could not believe how a damned city like that had fondly grown on him. Certainly, it was not as beloved as the forest city he had grown up, but the friendships he had developed within Arx's walls, the good partnership with his fellow Guardians, this new purpose in life he had acquired, Sandor; all of them made his bond with the city deeply meaningful.

He chuckled. Everything ended up being so different from the future he had always envisioned for himself: a lost soul aimlessly roaming dirty paths until death could strike him down. Instead, life had turned exactly into what he wanted to have when he was part of the Divine Order, when Nueleth was still alive.

Reaching that ring in his necklace, he smiled at the sea, reviving more memories of that intense woman to keep her as alive and overwhelming as always in his flesh. He had shared with her a place called home in Ataraxia, many moons ago. A home that had crumbled under the advance of the Black Ring. To think he would build another one was unthinkable at that time. Now, it seemed to be only natural.

Maybe it was an inborn tendency for living creatures to establish a nest where to come back, a place where to rest after a long painful journey. Maybe it was like Mother Melati always used to tell him: _A house is made of bricks and beams. A home is made of hopes and dreams. Who does not want to return to such a place?_

A pat on his shoulder broke the flow of memories; he saw Lysantir's wicked grin. Like him, the elf leant on the handrail of the ship, contemplating the sea. "We've just arrived."

Ifan looked across the deck, where he could spot the old Driftwood docks. Nothing had changed much. It was the same town, with its terrible smell of fish and dirt.

It was easy to recognise the main headquarters of the Guardians in Driftwood, they were exactly in the same place where it used to be the Magister's. Nothing in it had changed much either, merely the Magisters had been replaced by Guardians. The same merchants, the same faces, the same buildings.

They remained several days in town, testing all the Guardians that had been incorporated in the Driftwood section. Lysanthir inspected their magical abilities, teaching some extra strategies against the Voidwoken while learning the ones that the villagers knew. Everything seemed to be under control.

In one of their free afternoons, after a long day of work, Ifan showed Lysanthir the dark yet cozy side of Driftwood. Knowing Papa Thrash and the hidden nature of the town, the old Underground tavern could not have disappeared. And, effectively, it had not. On the contrary, it had turned into an open section in the Black Bull tavern, where clients could go to smoke some herbs and listen to relaxing dwarven music of epic battles of the past.

When Ifan took both mugs full of drudanae beer and sat at the table where the elf was waiting for him, he could not help but beam at the memory inspired by that spot. It had been there, in that same table, where Sandor had been drunk for the first time with a watered-down beer and had given to Ifan all the hints about his undeniable desire to share something else than a casual moment with him.

Ifan’s obvious smile was not missed by Lysanthir, who squinted at him as if he could translate that gesture into images, “Look at that silly smile on your face. You have done a lot of naughty things here, I can see it.”

Ifan laughed, as a soft blush appeared on his cheeks. “A lot less naughty from what you can imagine, believe me.”

“Let me test it.” He said, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his lips.

Ifan shook his head, his smile still lingering on his lips, and drank a bit of his beer.

Defeated once more, unable to lick Ifan, Lysanthir looked around while tasting his own beer. Sometimes he would take the mug by its border with his fingertips, disdain and tiredness combined in equal measure in such action, and would drink a little bit. It was in those small gestures that Ifan could see an elf deeply fatigued of life, a person who had lived too much. And exactly that was what made him so relatable beyond his elven nature.

Catching Ifan in the act, the elf narrowed his eyes and smirked. “Wasn't here where you and the Mestre worked together time ago?”

Knowing he had been off-guard for a fraction of a second, Ifan frowned and looked aside, pretending not to remember it immediately. “Oh, sure. Yeah, we all were here for a time when we were chasing after Alexander.”

As usual, the elf did not say a word but kept his piercing eyes on Ifan’s face, observing as scholars do with creatures whose secrets want to fully uncover. His inquisitive and invasive look spoke volumes about the amount of conclusions he was reaching at that moment, but his silent attitude only could mean that he was not sure enough about them to share them out. Ifan hated that scholarly intensity, especially because he knew where it came from, and he did not want to give room to misunderstanding. Suddenly, a strong pat on his back broke the moment between both.

“I knew you were into elves. Old habits die hard.” A tall human said.

It was a patron, one of the oldest ones that had shared some drinks with Ifan when he was still a Lone Wolf, and Fort Joy was only a mere name that floated around in casual nocturnal conversations. It was also the same rascal that had screamed back then, with Sandor slightly drunk, something about Ifan being a not so lonely dog. Why was that man so nosy?

Ifan cleared his throat and blushed, while Lysanthir rested his chin in the back of his hand, a raised eyebrow, delighted by the confusion. Sharing some nods, Ifan and the patron spoke shortly, after which a couple of women approached their table.

“Look what the breeze has brought.”

A silky voice caught Ifan's attention, he turned a bit and saw a tall elf.

“For the fallen, Sebille!”

She smiled. Ifan jumped from the chair and hugged her tightly. Behind her, Lohse followed and hugged both of them too. Surprised, she touched his long hair, far behind the shoulders gathered in a low ponytail. “My, my. Time has passed, look at this length.”

Ifan chuckled, catching Sebille's wary look at Lysanthir's direction.

“Oh, and who is this handsome man? You don't waste time, uh?” Lohse elbowed Ifan and laughed. Ifan blushed fiercely.Why could nobody stop with the topic?

The joke pleased Lysanthir, and his smile became broader. He stood up, moved his chair, and with a graceful bow, invited the other two women to join them at the table. “I'm Lysanthir, Guardian. Representative of the Elves in Arx.”

“My, I have a representative there?” Sebille looked at Ifan, “Where is Sandor?” she said, taking her place beside Ifan.

“He is in Arx. Healing and teaching. He has a lot of work.”

“Is he okay?” Lohse asked, everyone keeping their words too vague due to the presence of the stranger.

“Yes. Most of the time he is exhausted. Too much to heal when Voidwoken attacks are so frequent and random.”

“Tell him to be prepared.” Sebille said. Her words made Ifan take a mouthful from his mug with a cocked eyebrow, waiting for her to add the details, “We arrived in Driftwood a couple of weeks ago. We were in Ferol, and got some strange rumours about the Lizards.”

Ifan frowned, and like Lysanthir, both turned serious. “Tell us, it's important.”

“You know that almost three years ago we… well, The House of Dreams was annihilated. Trying to fill the hole left, the House of Law tried to control The House of War, but… It seems things have been becoming more and more belligerent since then. The rumour says that The House of War killed the head of the House of Law. “

“But don't they have another heir under the sleeve?” Ifan asked.

“They always have secret princes and backup plans. That's true. But.. this time it seems to have reached a deeper level.” Sebille said, shrugging.

Ifan took another sip and added, “And is the House of Law so useless to defend themselves?”

“These are... unprecedented circumstances. They had never attacked each other. They were deeply entangled with one another to give their best to the Empire. They wanted to expand the Lizard empire, not to destroy it with inner conflicts. I think it’s quite odd what has been happening with them lately.” Sebille said.

“I don't know about Lizard politics, but maybe the violent ban of a whole race in Rivellon spiced things up, don’t you think?” Lohse said.

Lysanthir looked at Ifan and nodded. “I'll see what I can do once we return to Arx. DeSelby has to know about this rumour for sure. Certainly it's something we need to pay attention to.”

Ifan sighed. “Yes. Because we were so bored with only Voidwoken attacks.” Ifan drank a bit more and moved his head to both sides, cracking sounds immediately popped up from his neck. “Well, another problem to the list.” He frowned and moved his hand as if he were shooing something away. “Give me a break for a few hours here, I don’t want to think about the world while I’m in this tavern. Tell me about you, girls. Where are you two going now?” Ifan smiled, more pleasant with that topic.

“Lohse has to perform some shows in this part of Rivellon. Everyone is excited to hear the return of the legendary musician,” Sebille said, a sweet smile curving her lips, while looking at Lohse's eyes, so clear as sky during daylight.

Lohse hit Sebille's arm gently and then patted Lysanthir's forearm, leaning toward him as if she were going to share a secret. “As you can see, I don't need a manager. She can sell my skills so efficiently and with that charming tongue of her, that I don't need to worry about being promoted.”

Sebille darted at her the most mischievous look she could while curving her lips in a smug smile; certainly Lohse knew a lot about her charming tongue.

The message was so obvious that Ifan chuckled, hiding his face for a moment, blushing. “In any case, if you want to come... you are more than welcome to Arx.” He said.

“We'll do it. Just after finishing my shows here. Arx needs more art. And I could visit an old friend.” Lohse added.

Ifan smiled. “Sandor will be more than happy to see you two.”

* * *

Sandor walked throughout the academy long corridors that used to be decorated with huge images of the Seven, their altars, and many people knelt before them, praying. Now, they were only empty space, with discoloured walls where the paintings used to be hung, and melted wax on random places of the ground.

Knocking the door of Arhu's chamber, Sandor stepped in, finding the High Paladin Hardwin sitting in front of the ancient cat-wizard. His presence broke the conversation they were having, and the Paladin darted him a black look.

“High Paladin,” Sandor bowed shortly, “How did you travel so fast from Stormdale?” Sandor's surprise removed any excessive manner that the protocol demanded.

Hardwin raised his chin, arms crossed, “I don't take a stroll through the forest when important matters have to be prioritised.”

Sandor looked aside, trying to fake ignorance of such accusations. But it was true. Crossing that part of the forest bordering the desert on horse used to give more than four hours of advantage. “I thought you were returning to the Paladin headquarters, anyways.”

“I was, but briefly after starting my return, a war owl brought me some news of utmost importance that I had to deliver to my paladins here in Arx. I can't trust in mere Guardians to do it. Who can imagine what they could do with this information, considering what kind of infamous past any of you may have.” He stood up from the chair and straightened his back and shoulders, getting closer to Sandor and displaying their big height difference. Not that it could count for impressing anyone; it was well known that Balurikense people were usually shorter than the average of humans. “DeSelby has not arrived yet, and I can't wait here any longer. My information was given to the only person I can trust; the one who actually cares to protect the people living here.” Hardwin said with a rough tone giving a glimpse to Arhu who was still on his desk.

Sandor rolled his eyes, a gesture that was caught by the Paladin and tensed his face. Such an impertinent little man.

“And what information is that?” Sandor said, his annoyance transparent in his voice.

“None of your concern.”

The paladin looked down at Sandor, while the latter had to lift his chin a little bit to keep that hard eye contact.

“The High Paladin must know that he is not the only one fighting Voidwoken.” Sandor said.

Harwin forced a chuckle, “And the Mestre of this city must know that he is a mere lap dog. I can't imagine how dirty a scholar must be to accept becoming _his _right hand.”

Those words unbalanced him for a fraction of a second, breaking the eye contact, and forcing Sandor to look down. That had hit him completely off-guard. He swallowed and raised his eyes soon afterwards. Now, his Balurik's eyes. “You have DeSelby here, monitoring everything. She has a broad control in our security and information network. If she did not tell you something dirty about me... you should not assume.”

“Maybe, but DeSelby is a good paladin. Too good.”

Sandor frowned. “And what does that suppose to mean?”

“You'll see.” The Paladin said, passing by Sandor, just to stop before the door and turning over his heels to say his goodbyes to Arhu. The cat wizard simply nodded.

“May I ask what’s the reason that angers you so much against the Commander?” Sandor crossed his arms.

Harwin looked at Arhu again, and then to Sandor. “He used to be an honourable man, indeed, but not anymore. The Guardians allowing outlaws and mercenaries in their rows has deeply disgusted the Paladins. This is not a secret to anyone. We have a code, we have discipline, we have honour and duty. We have pride. And what do the Guardians have? A bunch of erratic, dirty, and rogue techniques to save their own neck. We, Paladins, did well not to accept the fusion of our honour with your... indulgence, to put it lightly. We have learnt from our past mistakes, and will never join this Order of Debauchery. We are just waiting for this new Guardian Order to become the same insanity that Magisters were.”

“The Guardians are an entirely different thing.”

Hardwin chuckled, “Bold of you to say that when the Arx section is led by the same man who spat on Lucian's grave, who smeared him when he was dead and unable to defend his honour. The whole Order is made by the same people who had spread a lie as a truth.”

“Do you still believe in Lucian?” Sandor paused, twitching his lips slightly, and the shadow of a dimple was formed on a cheek. “Then, what stops paladins from becoming part of the god-fanatics? What's the Paladin’s responsibility for their attacks?

Hardwin’s nostrils flared, controlling the sudden anger that boiled from inside. He sighed to release the tension and looked down shaking his head, “Mestre, what I believe means nothing. I took an oath to protect this world. To protect its people. As long as the Guardians remain loyal to that concept, I will overlook their despicable means and techniques. But that doesn't mean I will bow before an opprobrious man. Much less to cheer on their dubious means. I may be bonded to an oath, but I will never lose my own voice. Good day.”

The paladin crossed the door and slammed it.

“I see the meeting was a success. You made some new friends. He is charming, isn't he?” Arhu said.

Sandor sighed. Hardwin had many things against Ifan, but the main one was that he could not forgive him for destroying the Divine. Although Arhu managed to spread a version of the events that showed him as the main responsible for failing to protect Lucian, Hardwin had always suspected Ifan’s involvement in it. It could not be a mere coincidence to have the most infamous outlaw who wanted revenge against Lucian's son in the same place where The Divine’s lifeless body was found later.

Arhu poured wine in a cup, “But be sure that Hardwin is not related to those god-fanatic attacks. He is just... a bit grumpy about the Magister's downfall and the supposed unprofessionalism of the Guardians,” standing up, Arhu walked close to the big window and looked at the sea, “Well. Welcome back my friend. Hope your travel has been safe and easy.”

Sandor rubbed his face and walked to Arhu. “It was, with the exception of this... surprise. What kind of information did Hardwin share?”

“Ah, something about strange movements of the Lizards in the North. They seem to be moving out of the Ancient Empire in great groups.”

“Migration? To leave their empire?”

“It's hard to say. We need to investigate on that matter. Or wait for him to get us more information. Whatever happens first.” He savoured the wine slowly. “And he also wanted more room in the city for refugees. A new town in the North has been attacked and it is swarmed by Voidwoken while we speak. They can't return.”

Sandor scratched his chin with his fingers. “Arx will be overwhelmed in a year if we don't build more towns around it.”

“It's complicated to do that. Arx is still not safe on its own. We have most of the Guardians in training. They are quite amateur. How are we supposed to protect those surrounding towns?”

“The slums will soon be a nest for disaster. We can't keep these people there for years.”

“Worse is to die.”

“Says the man with a chamber three times bigger than an average house.”

Arhu raised an eyebrow. “Did that Guardian meeting in Stormdales tensed you a little bit or it's just your usual bitterness?” He poured more wine in his cup.

After a sigh, Sandor rubbed his face again, “My apologies.” Then, he took a seat close to the desk and waited for Arhu to join him. Before doing so, Arhu took another cup and filled it with wine. Certainly, Sandor needed a bit of it into his system to lighten his mood.

“I imagine this will soft your tart tongue.” Arhu placed the cup on the desk in front of Sandor.

“So, give me the news in town. What happened while I was in Stormdale?.”

“More or less everything has been... _normal._ In terms of what _normal_ means now, of course. Some rather enthusiastic mobs tried to lynch me at the academy entrance in the name of some wizard illness.”

Sandor leant on the desk, his hands on his face. “Why is she like this? When will she stop?”

Arhu chuckled, “I've stopped asking me those questions after the first month I met her.” His face became serious, “The main problem, Sandor, is the new silent monk. It’s another one appearing after years of thinking that there was not any Magister activity.”

“I know. Are remnant Magisters getting rid of the ones they kept? Or…” Sandor’s face winced with fear, “Goodness... are they making new ones?”

Both wizards stared at each other, unable to answer.

Arhu continued, “Besides these disturbing ordeals, the Source keeps flickering, and ... all these things feed on _her_ delusional theory.”

“Arx can only have big problems.”

“Well, I can add the _small _troubles to that list too, if it makes you happier.” Arhu laughed, while Sandor drank the rest of the cup all at once. He needed to visit this new silent monk, talk to Tarquin, keep working in the black mirror, and help Engineer Sanders with the security system, all that before Sanguinia Tell would come up with another strange idea of her.

“Ah, by the way.” Arhu said, out of the blue, “You have left in charge a really powerful healer here. An old elf. He has been healing some of the defence groups that got attacked protecting a trade route, a bit far away from here. He is... _too powerful_. Too powerful indeed. I'm surprised. And concern.”

Sandor frowned. “Ah, you mean Nyw. Don’t worry about him. He is an apprentice. He has potential, hasn’t he?”

“Mn. Apprentice?.” Arhu said, drinking the last bits of his own cup, but his face was a bit tense.

* * *

Screams and explosions burst into the silence of Arx peaceful night. Sandor startled, jumping from his lonely bed. Guardian shouts were heard soon after. It followed a hum of slow flapping and an unnatural hisses, sounds that grew as his heart beat faster and faster. Out of the blue, the ground rumbled, and Sandor staggered while he was getting up. The origin of the tremor seemed to come from the sea. He wore a dressing gown, grabbed his staff and ran out the house being paralized by the picture of chaos and horror he found outside.

Swarms of small flying Voidwoken were dropping sharply over people who, afraid by the tremors, were running away from their houses. Desperate to escape that certain death, they ran in another direction, only to trip on small Voidlings that crawled on the streets. These slow creatures did not attack them, they were just a distraction for bigger Voidwoken to appear from the ground and engulf the terrified people.

From the city walls that faced the sea, strange Voidwoken never-seen before started to climb down. They were of medium size, their bodies were half-eels and half-scabs, and their open disfigured mouths were drooling acid.

Trembling due to the deep terror reaching every fibre of his body, Sandor managed to rush along the street to the academy direction, but he was stopped by an enormous deep-dweller (*) which landed in front of him, brilliant cracks of Void glowing on its decaying body.

With a reflex born from pure fear, Sandor rolled on the ground and cast a spell that was supposed to chain the creature, but it ended up burning it alive. A mistake that did not matter, since the creature, covered in fire, recoiled while screeching and headed to the other side, looking for other victims to attack.

He could have reacted and chased it, but he could not. The noises of the city in despair paralysed him. The rumbling, the intelligible screams of those close to death, the cries of the witnesses of the massacre, the bestial screeches of thousands of creatures feasting, the looming heavy flapping that was getting closer and closer. Everything was so overwhelming. Even for him, who had faced these creatures time ago.

A flash of a long dark corridor filled with the current sounds of the city interrupted his thoughts for a moment. He swallowed, forcing himself to stay focused, and ran away to the main street. The only image he wanted to keep in his mind was the academy’s.

No matter where he looked, there were Voidwoken everywhere, attacking people, breaking their bones, and lacerating their bodies to suck every drop of their Source, leaving a mess of viscera on the ground afterwards. Every Guardian --even those who were still under training-- kept fighting, defending the citizens as much as they could despite the fact that Voidwoken outnumbered them.

The cries had no stop. Erratic, desperate, heartbreaking screams, coming from everywhere. Sandor felt the terror paralysing his bones. To fight against it was a titanical task over the seconds.

After delivering a killing blow to a human-size Voidwoken, Paladin DeSelby appeared behind him. She was completely covered in ichor and her breath washeavy. Due to his shock, Sandor did nothing else but look at her mind-absently.

“Mestre, Mestre!”

After a moment, that familiar voice dragged him to reality once again. Sandor finally could recognise her, returning to their present despite the flashes of dark corridors that kept appearing in his mind. However, the tension of the situation was too much for him to speak.

“Mestre, we need your help.”

More screams filled the air. Dense smoke irritated his throat while fire gave a hellish tone to the whole city landscape. When he thought he was getting used to the chaos, new heartbreaking screams tensed all his body, followed by the sound of blades clashing, raising his adrenaline to unmanageable levels. Some cracks of Source started to appear on his skin, glowing on and off. The smoke reduced his vision, and for a moment, he felt claustrophobic. As if he were in a too narrow corridor, filled with never-ending screams. He had to rest all his body weight on his staff, and force his lungs to breathe slowly as some tears started to run across his cheeks. It had to be the smoke.

“Mestre!”

DeSelby’s voice anchored him in this reality, and with trembling lips, he finally spoke, “W-Where... where is co-commander Ben-mezd?” He barely could manage.

“He hasn't come yet. We need to save the city. It depends on us...” She frowned, realising the symptoms in the man. They had no time for shocks. She swayed her sword and killed two voidling that were going to attack Sandor's back. “What the hell is happening with you? Didn't you fight against Voidwoken before?”

“N-Not.. not a swarm. No.”

DeSelby sighed, “Better get used to it. Now.” She charged towards a deep-dweller (*) that was going to attack a man and his child, some meters away from them.

Guardians were fighting but Sandor could not move, just keep grabbing his staff tightly. There were so many Voidwoken, so many screams, so much terror. So much of everything, everywhere. He could not bear it. He wanted to leave. He wanted to forget this nightmare. He wanted time to stop.

When the situation could not be worse, a roar reverberated all over Arx city. It was coming from the sky, so people looked up, and terror silenced everyone for just a second. A dark decaying Void dragon was flying over them, ready to land on the main square. Another roar, and a group of people close to the Arx fountain was engulfed by a flame of Void that was spat out by the creature's mouth, turning their bodies into ashes. The remaining Source of those calcined corpses was absorbed immediately. These monsters kept feeding no matter the state of their victims.

Only after that event, a generalised panic scream, more intense than any other before,spread all over the city at once, with stampedes of people rushing away from the dragon. Guardians and citizens alike ran away from the creature, heading to the buildings in a vain attempt to save their lives, just to be killed by other Voidwokens that they met in their flee.

_This was the end. _

Sandor looked at the Dragon; his legs trembled and his sight became blurry.

_This was the end. _

His own Source was wildly crackling around him, small arcs of energy jumping from his wrists into the air; instability reaching its peak values. His shackles were not going to resist any longer.

“H-Hide everyone underground.” Sandor said to Guardian DeSelby, who had been, for the first time, victim of the shock as well, at least for a brief moment. She looked at him, puzzled. “I'll burn Source everywhere.”

She immediately ran, barking orders to the rest of the still functional Guardians. Everyone had to gather as many civilians as they could and hide them in every building with a basement.

Tears running along his cheeks, forcing his body to move despite its tension, Sandor got rid of the shackles of his wrists. Free once more, all his restrained Source rushed freely along his body, eliminating the excess in a sudden wave of Source which was violently propagated throughout the streets.

Every Voidwoken stopped its movements and looked at his direction. Even the dragon turned over its pawns and observed him, Void fumes released through its nostrils. If he had not expanded his Source pool enough, if he could not gather twice the amount of Source he usually had, this fight was going to end too bad for him. He sighed as his eyes could not stop looking at the dragon's. It had not been so long ago since he started to use those restrictions. It was not going to be enough. He knew he was going to fail, but still… But the Void...

_This was the end. _

Sandor fell on his knees, unable to endure the panic any longer, and released his ankle shackles too. He could feel his wild Source wanting to eat him, to burn him alive. Helped by his staff, he stood up again, and extending his shaking hands, he started to murmur a spell in an old language. He had no choice. As he never had.

_This was the end. _

He stopped controlling himself. He stopped doing what he had been doing all his life. He let it open. And he felt the same disgusting burn inside, the same one he used to perceive as a child before detonating a huge amount of Source that his tiny body was barely able to manage. Now, it had grown several times. Violent flames of green turbulent Source fire kept emanating from every pore of his skin as the pain became sharper and sharper.

_This was the end. _

The Dragon, now completely interested in him, ran towards his direction, hungry to taste such an amount of Source. It opened its jaw with the intention to attack him with one sole bite. The rest of the Voidwoken followed the beast. Everyone wanted to feast on that Source.

_This was the end. _

He saw the jaw, the fangs, the slippery tongue. That dark cave coming toward him, closing to break him into two. He screamed or cried. He could not know, but before the creature could properly bite him, Sandor released all his pool of Source at once. All of it, to the last drop.

A bubble of blazing Source appeared at the Dragon's jaw and expanded violently through all the city, destroying the Voidwoken as well as collapsing many unstable buildings. Hot tongues of green fire wrapped every house, and the remnant kinetic waves of the power made the floor shake violently. The already weak buildings that had endured the Voidwoken attack, finally fell apart. The kinetic waves of the process reached far beyond the limits of the city, as many flocks of birds from afar raised in erratic flight, forming dark clouds while fleeing away.

The Voidwoken that could escape the explosion diameter, ran away toward the sea and disappeared. For a long moment, Arx remained silent; it was uncertain if this had been the true end of times.

* * *

After several months of constant travelling, Ifan and his Guardian fellows had just returned from Driftwood. Due to some whim of Ifan's guts, he proposed to return to Arx immediately, without resting a night at the Fortress Keep. Everyone complained but could not convince their hard-headed commander of doing otherwise.

They were preparing the saddles on their horses when a wounded war owl reached Gareth with the message of a heavy attack on Arx. Despite their tiredness, everyone jumped to their horses and immediately headed to the city. With some luck, in five hours, they could be there.

However, their timing was ruined by random groups of Voidwoken that kept attacking them. When they were some kilometres away from the city entrance, they were paralysed by the sudden fear that ran along their spines. They heard a thunderous noise of kinetic waves and saw a bright massive dome of Source rising over the city and propagating in all directions violently. The phenomenon shocked everyone for a second. That colossal amount of Source affected Lysanthir, whose magical sensitivity was overwhelmed for some minutes. Ifan knew what that bright bubble over Arx meant and a deep fear wrapped his heart. Exhausting their horses, they ran to the city.

  
  


The closer they got, the more it was noted that lugubrious deafening silence. The landscape they found, filled with rubble everywhere and Source fumes emanating from every collapsed building, was a terrible omen of what they were going to find inside the city.

Dismounting the horses at the city entrance, they run through the streets, skimming the depressing scene. Steamy dead bodies everywhere, some from Voidwoken, others from humans and dwarves, scorched buildings falling apart, and a repulsive stench of burnt meat filled the air.

Somehow, among all that destruction, Ifan could spot in the middle of the main street another steamy body collapsed. He ran to it, and for a moment, his lungs lost any air and his heart stopped.

It was Sandor.

Or what was left of him. Sandor’s hand skin was melted and the burning was spread along his arms and part of his shoulders. Scared, Ifan touched his neck looking for a pulse that, by a miracle, was still there. Weak but present.

He let out a sigh, and immediately lifted Sandor from the ground, heading to the barracks. “You all, search for survivors everywhere. And bring healers. Bring the wounded to the barracks. Now.” He said to the rest of his fellows who were still under shock due to the silent landscape they were witnessing.

Ifan carried Sandor to the gates of the barracks. As soon as his voice was heard, the doors opened. He found a heavily wounded and exhausted DeSelby, blood and ichor mixed in equal proportions on her face and body.

“Commander, you finally came.”

“I'm here. What the hell happened?” Ifan walked past through the corridors to place Sandor in a bed of the infirmary. “Bring a healer. And treat yourself. You are bleeding too much.”

She made a gesture to the nearby Guardians and sat in a chair, explaining as she pressed a wound in her stomach. “A massive attack of Voidwoken. A swarm. We were outnumbered severely. We held as much as we could. A Void dragon appeared as well. We couldn't fight it. Then the Mestre told us to hide. And he did it. He... He killed it.” She covered her face with her free hand, breathing in and out. It was hard to believe that such a nightmare had ended, and even more unbelievable to think they had survived it.

“Your wife?” Ifan said.

She smiled and nodded, a calm gesture in her face. “She is fine. Thank you, commander.” The thought seemed to compound part of her mind. “We need to start a recovery group immediately, several buildings with people trapped in their basements are collapsed due to the Mestre's power.”

Ifan listened carefully as he removed Sandor’s burnt clothes and exposed his wounds. He started to treat them with healing potions. “You are as much of a commander as me, do everything you need without my permission. This is a critical situation. Be a Guardian.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“But first, treat those wounds. I don’t want you dead.” Ifan insisted.

One of the many students of Sandor appeared at the door and entered, carrying with her a kit of magical potions. Immediately, she started healing the severe burns while Ifan only observed her work. The skin on Sandor’s shoulders was recovered completely, but in his arms, the skin sealed in a twisted way leaving discoloured patches. It was expected. Sandor had been heavily wounded with Source after all; that kind of damage never allowed a complete recovery.

The apprentice claimed that a more competent healer, more powerful than most, was going to visit Sandor in a couple of hours. Knowing that he was not useful beside Sandor's bed, Ifan thanked the healer and left the room; he needed to help DeSelby to bring some order to the city.

* * *

When Sandor awoke, he observed the ceiling for a long moment. It was familiar, or so he thought, his dizzy mind making it hard to determine. He sighed and remembered he had been living in Arx for a while. The second sensation he perceived was a tightness all along his arms. He extended his hands in front of him, every movement hurting each fibre of muscle in his body. The use of such a massive amount of Source consumed too quickly left a heavy sharp pain all over his body. The damned Source ashes. A reminder of the consequences of using this power out of control.

He frowned at the sharp pain, but his lips twisted in disgust at the sight of his hands, which skin healed but became seared. He touched them. His tactile sense had been affected as well. It felt odd.

“Damn.” He whispered.

He heard another person moving next to his bed. “Ah, you finally awoke.”

His hands fell on his stomach and moved his head to the side. He had already recognised Ifan’s voice. “Are you okay? When did you come?”

“After the attack finished. Some days ago.”

Sandor blinked. “Days?”

“You have been sleeping a lot. Did… did you remember the attack?”

“Impossible not to do so.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as a rush of Source cracking covered his skin in glowing fractured lines for a fraction of a second, “I thought I was going to die. The city was… how bad it is? Did the Source destroy much? The slum? How many casualties?”

Ifan smiled, approaching the bed and sitting on its edge. He gently touched Sandor's damaged hands. Their texture was so different than before. He thought with a bit of guilt how much Sandor's body had changed since their paths met.

Maybe ashamed or surprised by the new twisted sensations in his skin, or still yet not completely accustomed to its hindered sensitivity, Sandor moved his hands away, looking aside. Ifan did not insist. Instead, he leant in and kissed his forehead, caressing his head.

“You did a great job, dear. Some buildings were destroyed, yes. And yes, there were casualties. But not as many as that attack was meant to. That’s how Guardians work. Protect the people. Protect themselves. And you did all that.”

Sandor smiled, not completely convinced, but did not complain. He did not have the energy to do so even if he wanted to. He only accepted a peck on his lips. With that, Ifan took his hands again and caressed them, his thumb moving in a slow tender semi-circle on the back of Sandor’s hands. This time, Sandor did not take them away.

“How many casualties?” Sandor insisted, “Please, tell me.”

“Few Guardians. Fewer citizens... And _some _people from the slum.” Sandor winced at him. He sat on the bed and tried to get up, being easily stopped by Ifan's strong hands. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“I'm a healer. I need to heal them... I have... It's...”

“Sandor, you are heavily wounded and exhausted. What do you think you are going to do? Let it be. I was informed a powerful healer has been doing his work while you were resting.” Sandor looked at him, curious. “An old elf healer or something, Lysanthir told me.”

“Ah, Nyw. Good. Good.” Sandor looked down, calmer for a moment. That man had developed a strong ability in healing despite never having Source before. Or so he said.

“Better? Now rest.”

Sandor nodded, looking around. “I need my... restrictive devices.”

With a gentle pat on Sandor's chest, Ifan took the four bracelets from a corner of a small table beside his bed. Under Sandor's instructions, he placed them in his wrists and ankles, seeing the pain they caused in him due to the Source ashes. When the process ended, and Ifan sat again on the edge of the bed, Sandor breathed in and out, and let himself fall on the mattress again.

“I... I was not fast enough....” Sandor's eyes suddenly turned teary, looking everywhere, as flashes of the fight started to run free in his mind. “I thought... it was the end.” His lips trembled.

Ifan cupped him, caressing his cheek with his thumb. The man was still under shock. Ifan had seen these erratic changes of mood so many times. As a veteran, he could recognise them as the main picture left after any War. Ifan closed his eyes and hugged Sandor, strongly, lifting him a bit from the bed and rubbing his back with a gentle palm. “It's over, Sandor. It's over.”

  
  


After leaving Sandor in his bed, Ifan walked along the city streets, giving orders in parallel with DeSelby. He made a fast analysis of the situation, and walked to the Academy.

Standing askance despite the tiredness, Arhu was surveying what was left of the city as well, disappointment transparent on his face. By his side, poking rubble with a long stick, it was Tarquin, still a bit overwhelmed by the stench and the whole movement of Guardians running here and there.

Stopping beside Arhu, Ifan looked along the street, as a group of Guardians were trying to rescue a child from a collapsed building. He rubbed his face before speaking, “Just tell me this is... is not going to be routine; one of these attacks here and there. I mean... a dragon of Void?”

Straight shoulders, chest open, Arhu never averted his eyes from the street, “I know, my friend. I also thought these times were free of them. You know, time ago, a millennium or more, Rivellon was threatened by a Void dragon. We thought it was the main enemy of life back then. But it was not. Maybe he was the guard of something else...”

“I don't care what happened a millennium ago. I need to understand the meaning of this. Is this coming from the God King? How do we prevent another attack like this? Are more of those dragons out there? Do you have something to propose?”

Tarquin walked close to them, carelessly throwing the stick behind him, and smiled in his polite yet forced way. “Certainly we need that alarm system fully working. The prototype version helped to avoid further damage. But not all. Not in the slum, for sure.”

Ifan looked down. The slum had been the one that had suffered the worst. He did not want to inform the details to Sandor yet, but they had roughly counted that half of it had succumbed to the Voidwoken. According to some, it had been there where the attack started.

“Oh, my handsome commander, don’t make that long face. Look at it from a different perspective. If we could find a bright side to all this tragedy, we could say that the slum overpopulation problems are over, for a while. So, it’s not so bad.” Tarquin said.

Ifan raised an eyebrow, observing him in silence.

“Speeding up the construction of those flying machines would add more possibilities of escape under a second attack,” Tarquin continued, ignoring Ifan’s annoyed look, “and well, I have to say this because the Mestre is not here to say it by himself, but... we need more work on the mirror.” He shrugged, squinting at Ifan and waiting for his usual reaction.

“Argh. Please, that blasted thing. You too?” Ifan rolled his eyes.

“I know, I know. I always told him that it was a waste of time. But he insists. And… despite my own opinion on the matter, I trust the Mestre. We should find someone who can work on it, considering... it hates me.”

Arhu frowned at Tarquin, curious by that comment.

“The mirror attacked me once. A disturbing ordeal, my friend.” Tarquin clarified.

“What about the silent monks?” Ifan said, knowing that sooner or later Sandor was going to ask about them.

“Oh, they are perfectly well and healthy. Or at least, as much as a silent monk can be.” Tarquin said moving his hand as if he were shooing something away, “The academy and the clinic received no damage thanks to our dear Arhu.” Tarquin smiled, patting Arhu's shoulder. Many soldiers and citizens had survived thanks to the sudden shields that — sustained by Arhu’s Source — emerged from both buildings.

A repetitive sound of a cane hitting the ground silenced the three men. They looked at the direction of the sound and distinguished the figure of an old woman, proud and tall despite her age, her cane pointing towards them. She stopped some steps far away, observing Arhu with revulsion. The Wizard rolled his eyes.

“This is your responsibility, Commander.” She pointed out Ifan with her cane in the air.

“Really? Are you expecting me to command the Voidwoken to attack somewhere else?”

“No. But this city is destroyed because you have been too soft with these Voidwoken's attractors.” Her cane moved violently towards Arhu.

“Lady Tell, please, there is nothing, no evidence at all, that points out wizards as callers of Voidwoken.” Tarquin added, “In fact, tell me how would you have survived without this _filthy_ wizard raising shields that gave you shelter in the clinic, while the other _filthy_ wizard killed a Void dragon. Do you understand the weight of what I'm saying, Lady Tell?”

She looked at him, a deep frown on her face.

Then, he smiled wickedly, “If any of us is still alive, it is thanks to those _filthy_ Wizards, My Lady.”

Her eyes jumped from Tarquin to Arhu, and then to Ifan. “You need to investigate this further. If there is a connection, you must tell me. There is no evidence that they did not call this swarm to present themselves as saviours.”

Arhu rolled his eyes again, and let a long sigh out of his chest. He was so, so, so exhausted of this human lady. She turned over her heels and went away, as her cane hitting the ground faded in the distance.

Arhu rubbed his face. “Why is she so twisted?”

“They say it's the age.” Tarquin faked a courtesy smile.

Ifan looked at both men, in silence.

* * *

During the next two months, Arx was under process of reconstruction keeping in mind the new potential attacks. Engineer Sanders worked exhaustively in the new defence system, and its first version was installed sooner than they expected, with the promise of developing a more sophisticated one in a near future.

Under explicit orders of Ifan, a copy of this defence system was installed in the slum. A set of secondary entrances to Arx were also built, consisting of several bridges which connected the old docks with the city walls. They were going to provide new means to evacuate the area in case of need.

The slum used to have a single entrance placed at the end of the main pier. Any attempt of looking for shelter inside the city forced the slum inhabitants to leave the docks and walk several dozens of meters surrounding the outside of Arx’s walls, to finally enter the city by its main gates. This lack of alternative routes had killed many during the swarm. Now, with these new inner paths, the population of the slum could have easy access to the city in a couple of minutes.

Changes were not only applied to Arx’s infrastructure, but also to its security system; the Guardian training also experienced modifications in order to be reinforced. Ifan and DeSelby instructed their recruits in rougher ways than before, and those who were already soldiers changed their routine to improve their resilience. Meanwhile, Sandor increased the amount of healers in the clinic and crafted a vast reserve of healing potions and scrolls, encouraging each person from the city or the slum to have several of them. Many of the dead had been only injured during the swarm, and could have survived, had them better means for healing themselves.

Although it had been a big price to pay, the attack allowed the city to understand its weaknesses much better and reinforce its defences. So far, it was one of the few cities that had survived those swarms without the need of a permanent exile. And with that illusion of safety that such a triumph meant, the city returned to its normal life in a couple of months.

* * *

“I need your help, Nyw.” Sandor said, gathering several empty bags and walking to the clinic exit.

The elf, until that moment casting a dark red spell over a patient's leg, looked at the Mestre, curious but silent.

“We need to select supplies for more potions.” Sandor said.

The elf patted the patient's leg and stood up. Removing his white apron, a bit stained with blood, he smiled at Sandor. His permanent crow's feet got deeper with the gesture.

Sandor had grown fond of this old elf. He had turned out to be more useful as a healer than he had expected. Any attempt to extract from him some extra information about his past was useless. It was clear that his healing expertise had not been a miracle of Divinity Source, but Sandor could not convince the elf to share it. Insistence on the topic was always derailed by Nyw with a kind smile as a looming dangerous aura grew around him. Because that was one of the strangest characteristics of the elf’s personality; there was an odd tranquillity dwelling in his soul, an unstable tranquillity similar to the calm before the hit of the tempest. It made people wonder when the elf was going to lose his mind. However, taking into account the elf’s painful past, Sandor could understand a certain level of concealed madness, so he never pushed him to talk further.

They reached the supply store placed in front of the barracks. Although Sandor was inspecting the quality of the herbs on his hands, he could not help but watch the training field of the barracks, easy to see with its gates open.

Several recruits were fighting against Ifan and Lysanthir, who had teamed up. Training against the trickiest persons in the barracks was especially hard for the newbies, but not for that less vital. It was the best way for them to develop teamwork and to learn how to take sharp quick decisions on spot; both invaluable qualities when facing more powerful enemies.

Sandor half smiled, convinced that such training was full of cheats since it was Ifan’s style, developed in the concept of survival. And Lysanthir was not a clean fighter either. He was, after all, the only one able to defeat Ifan. To have both of them teamed up on the same side was too much for the whole group of recruits.

“They are a charming couple, right?”

Sandor blinked, dropping his smile on the spot. The elf, who was standing behind him, kept observing the fight wearing his usual gentle apathy.

“I'm old, and I've seen this many times. Humans who fancy elves follow clear patterns. And those two have been following them to the letter.”

“Um... I... I think they are only good friends. Brothers-in-arms and the like.”

The elf chuckled and looked down, observing Sandor's profile, who was still watching the fight. “Partners in combat follow a significantly different pattern. If you think about it... an elf raised by humans will always be fond of them, especially when it comes to a human raised by elves who has been married with one before. Is it not the perfect match? So much mutual understanding.”

“I... I guess.” Sandor whispered.

“If they are not together already, they will be soon. Things evolve all the time, especially in times of despair. One joke after the other, a battle, a training, and one day... sharing a bed. Not that I speak from personal experience.” He chuckled again.

Sandor turned a bit, looking up at the elf. Their eyes met for a brief moment as a dark emotion filled Sandor's chest. That looming danger inspired by the elf was there, stronger than ever.

“And you are following patterns, too. _Other_ patterns.” Nyw spoke slowly.

Stepping back, Sandor glared at him without saying a word.

“You like him.” Nyw added.

“I don't know what you are talking about, but we have work to do.” Sandor looked aside, filled the bags with the herbs he had been inspecting before, and left the store.

Amused, Nyw took the bags left behind, and carrying all that weight on his back, he walked faster enough to reach Sandor. He smiled at him.

“I won't say a thing, my friend. It will be _our _little secret. Another one of many.”

“There is nothing to say or keep in secret.”

“If you allow me an unsolicited advice-”

“No, no. I don't need any-”

“-you can steal him.” Nyw dropped the words anyway.

Sandor stopped short and frowned at the man, disgusted with that word choice. “What are you saying?”

"I've seen his kind. He is a man who will go where there is a bed full of pleasures." He stepped in front of Sandor and smirked, “I know you like him. It's obvious. Just be sure to offer him what he wants.”

Giving up, Sandor looked down observing the twisted skin on his hands. Ifan was not like that. But… _change _may always happen. Nothing in life remains the same. Those words were echoing in his mind.

“We have work to do.” Sandor said.

They resumed their walk, and for the rest of the day, they did not talk to each other again.

* * *

This time, Sandor returned home early, under the excuse that there was some pending work to do in his house. It was not completely a lie. After all, he still had to translate many books from the expedition and keep working on the refinement of the Vowidwoken alarm system. However, his pending tasks were the last of his concerns. Once he put a foot in his home, he moved aside books and papers on the table, and took his most refined wine from the kitchen rack. He decided to drink it alone.

He could not avoid it. It was not exactly doubts about Ifan what were torturing him, but the looming danger of _change_. That inscrutable feeling that something life-changing was approaching, and would put his life upside down. He had to drink in order to fight that feeling in the middle of his stomach, a pressure that made his breathing a bit more difficult than usual.

He knew that these times would come eventually. He had felt it when, almost two years ago, in front of a pile of corpses set on fire at the entrance of Arx, Ifan told him he wanted to be a new man. He knew it when his only memento of Ifan--that necklace with a single silver fang--had been thrown into that repulsive pyre. The meaning of that gesture struck Sandor once more. Ifan wanted to get rid of him, of their relationship, of the marks that they could mutually imprint one another.

The truth, Sandor thought, was unavoidable. He was going to end alone, discarded and unstable, too dangerous to be close, too much work to care, too dull to sleep with. He poured more wine in his cup but the bottle was already empty. He dropped it on the ground and took another.

The confusing behaviour of Lysanthir, those long months alone with Ifan, those knowing looks they always shared. Nyw could be right. Maybe it was a matter of time until one day Ifan would call him to sit at that same table and calmly speak, telling him with grave eyes that he was going to pursue his true fancies elsewhere. Fancies made of bark. He looked at his arms. Struggling to keep balance, he got up, took his cup, and walked to the room with a pronounced sway. He stopped in front of the mirror and observed his figure in it.

There was nothing special in him but that pompous robe. Neither attractive, nor useful, nor worthy, nor clean. He quaffed and threw the cup on the bed. He removed his robe and dropped it on the ground, stepping on it. Fuck those expensive accessories that decorated his devaluated self.

He looked at his reflection once again. With the simple shirt and the ragged trousers he always wore under his robe, he was not different from any farmer. Another human in an overpopulated city. He sniffed and removed his shirt. The sight of his body made him wince. His torso, with star-like scars on his chest and a belly more prominent than the last time he saw it, seemed to be less important in comparison with those new scars along his arms. Rhombus patterns and a leather-like rough texture had deformed his skin. He touched his forearm, and the numb sensation of the tissue made him feel worse. His sense of touch had been affected severely all over that zone. He was not sure if he would enjoy a caress again since his skin felt odd. But despite this disgrace, nothing of it felt, at least, like bark. He could not even have that comfort.

He focused on that pathetic reflection on the mirror. The grey strip in his hair had been getting thicker, and his general appearance, proper of an aged over-used creature, triggered the memory of the shame he had passed in the council during the visit of those poisonous Balurik scholars.

He swallowed the memory, the shame, the repulsion of being in his own skin.

Mind absent, he took the cup that had been thrown on the bed and returned to the main room, getting another bottle of wine. For a moment, he had intentions to pour some wine in the cup, but manners be damned. Who cared? He smashed the cup against the entrance door and drank directly from the bottle.

He sat on a chair and remained quiet for a long moment, thinking, lost in nightmarish memories and dirty shame.

Despite the hours, time felt stuck. Or so he thought.

  
  


“Something wrong, Sandor?”

Startled by that voice, Sandor jumped from his chair, grabbing the bottle and pressing it against his chest, and turned on his heels. It was Ifan, who in his fresh casual clothes and with wet hair, had just entered through the magical corridor.

Ifan's eyes carefully lowered along Sandor's shirtless body, then he observed the pieces of crystal close to the door and the bottles of wine, empty, on the table. He had already seen clothes left in a mess on their room's ground. That had been the first sign that had put Ifan in alert; Sandor had never treated his fancy robes like a dirty rag.

“Sandor, what's happening?”

Sandor shook his head, looking down and walking backwards, until his back hit the wall and slid to the floor. He sniffed and took a long sip from the bottle, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand. Ifan frowned; that was not the pompous mannered Sandor he knew. Something was deeply wrong.

Worried, Ifan approached him, squatting in front of him. Hegently touched Sandor's chin and lifted it a bit, looking into his evasive eyes. “Look at me.” He whispered.

Sandor did so after a long silence, surrendered. “It's nothing, Ifan. I’m fine. I’m fine.” He moved apart Ifan's hand. “I just... It's stupid.”

“Well, less reasons not to tell me, then. Nothing wrong with stupid things.” Ifan pressed his lips in a thin line. Nothing stupid could have put Sandor in this state, drunker than ever.

“It’s just… I've been.. thinking in change. We talked about this a long time ago, when we were after Dallis. You said Melati told you that changes are like fresh air, nothing can go wrong... but when things change, things fall apart. Change destroys.” He drank, choking a little bit in the process.

Considering that Sandor was shirtless, Ifan observed his burnt arms discreetly. Maybe that had triggered all this mess, “Has it not been a good thing so far? To destroy the old structures, the old habits, the old rancid rules? Make some new ones?”

“It can destroy the old good things too. What we had before.”

Ifan squinted but remained in silence.

“You changed.” Sandor finally said, as Ifan raised an eyebrow and blinked in surprise. “And the things you liked before, the places you... belonged to... were destroyed with that change. Yet, you embraced change.”

“I don't understand what you are meaning.”

Sandor smiled nervously, his lips twitching in a sad smile, as he averted his eyes from those intense green ones. He guzzled half a bottle to have some courage to continue speaking. “Change... can change feelings.What you found interesting before, after change, it may be boring now. And new fancies become appealing.”

Ifan squinted again, more suspiciously this time. Then he blinked as if the answer had reached his mind. “Oh, wait... am I bored to you?”

Sandor sighed in disgust as he tossed his hands in the air. The bottle almost fell from his hands, but Ifan caught it before it could hit the ground. He gulped the rest of the wine and then he cleaned his lips with his palm taking too much time in doing so. “I don't have any elf around me.”

At first confused, Ifan grinned later, pointy teeth flashing as the understanding of the situation finally reached him. “Wait. Are you jealous? Of Lysanthir?”

Sandor shook his head, looking at him with his saddest eyes. “I'm not jealous. I'm scared.” He paused, frowned at his own words, and trying to correct himself, he raised an extended finger, as if he were explaining a complex matter. “Maybe both. But still fear is the most important of both.”

Ifan broad smile disappeared on spot and tilted his head, fondly placing his hand on Sandor’s forearm. “But Sandor...Why?”

“I'm scared of not catching up with your changes. I’m scared that this change is so out of my reach that I will become the boring thing that has to be left behind, the thing that has to be discarded in favour of the positive change. _Your _positive change. And there is nothing you or I can do. When you don't fancy something anymore.... there is _nothing_ to do. That's the nature of change.” Sandor looked down, and a couple of tears jumped from his eyes. He wiped them out immediately. “Change was never kind in my life. The first spark of Source in my body changed… everything. It made it worse. When I decided to change my behaviour towards the Academy, they called the Magister upon me. I’d chosen change, and it made it worse. When I could return to my quiet life, after Malady left us in Driftwood, I didn't do so. I wanted more change in my life. And I ended up leaving a path of corpses and shattered worlds. It made it worse. When my tutor helped me, I thought it was change… a refreshing, healing change… and look at the mess it was.” Sandor rubbed his eyes, biting his lower lip to contain the cry. But he could not do it. He broke into short sobs that gave him a small relief.

Slowly, Ifan sat by his side; the strong stench of alcohol reached his nostrils. “You’ve made your own choices along your life. Did all of them bring you the worst?”

Silent, Sandor kept looking down, wiping out rebel tears from the corner of his eyes.

Ifan sighed, “You changed my life, like I did in yours. Did I make it worse?”

In a sudden movement, Sandor's scared eyes met Ifan's,“No. No. In the slightest.”

Ifan smiled reaching out Sandor’s cheek. “Yeah, change can be a bit messy sometimes, but it's not always bad. Not when you are pretty stuck in the muck.”

Sandor exhaled deeply and forced himself to be completely honest. “I'm afraid of losing you.”

“Why?”

The first intention was to restrain the answer, but the pressure in his throat hurt him. Unstoppable, Sandor’s words emanated from his lips like a river after a strong storm, in an intense flow, quickly, messy, desperate, “Because... I'm a boring person. I'm not an elf, and I can't be stronger, I can't win a skirmish against you, I'm not charming, I'm a scholar, hell, I'm a wizard, those things you hate so much—”

“Wait, wait-”

“ — and I can't even survive by myself, and I don't know anything about military strategy, and look at my arms!” He extended his hands in front of him, violently; the rhombuses texture highlighted by the diffuse light of the candles, “They don't even look or feel like bark. They are just disgusting...”

Ifan frowned, confused. He placed his hand on Sandor’s forearm again, and caressed it ignoring any texture. “Why are you saying all that?”

“I don't know. I only know I'm just everything you don't like.”

“Sandor, please. Stop that. I love you, stop thinking otherwise. Do you know what you are doing? Self-loathing. It's not useful, I’ve told you. I've been there.” He pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around his bare shoulders and letting Sandor rest his head on his chest. “Now…Something specifically must have triggered you this way… What got you so worked up? ”

Sandor shrugged. “Everyone has been saying so many things about you... and Lysanthir. And the jokes. And Driftwood. They got an effect on me, I guess.”

“They did, that's crystal clear.” He kissed Sandor's head and dearly rubbed one of his shoulders. “But no matter what the hell you've heard, Sandor... carve these words in your mind: I love you.”

Slowly, Sandor drew back to see Ifan's tender eyes looking at him, and a little ashamed, he forced one of his flickering smiles. “I'm sorry. I know it's silly... but... you and Lysanthir have so many things in common.” Sandor rubbed his eyes, “But promise me that... if you... if you fancy him... go ahead. Don't let me stop you. I won't be mad. After all, I can't do anything with you-”

Ifan closed his eyes for a moment; tht had been such a low blow, “Sandy, dear, don't say it.”

“-and you don't deserve that. You can go with him... just... just don't discard me, please. Don't leave me behind. I still can be useful… somehow.”

Ifan’s eyes turned teary. Touched by that beg, he embraced him tightly. How broken could Sandor be? He knew some doubts were creeping inside him, but not like this. How good at pretending to be fine was Sandor? How was he going to help Sandor to heal this deep wound? For a moment, Ifan wished to be a scholar, just to be able to choose the best words to repair the scattered fragments of Sandor’s soul, and make him understand that none of his fears were real. There was no need for those self-loathing pleas.

“Please, don't think that way, darling.”

But Ifan was not a scholar, and words were not his strength; they never flow in fancy ways. He knew he needed to come up with something that could help Sandor. And it had to be soon. Sandor was a mess getting bigger over time. He truly needed to take some measures.

He did not know how many hours they remained there, embraced, sitting on the ground, but at some point in the night, both fell asleep.

* * *

Next day, Sandor could not stand looking at Ifan directly. He was so ashamed that he kepthis eyes low during their whole breakfast. No matter how many pecks Ifan could give him, his eyes were always lost somewhere else;on his dish, in his tea, on the ground. Playfully, Ifan gently pushed Sandor's chin and threatened him to never release him unless he could look at him. The silly joke made him surrender, finally letting their sights meet.

Ifan smiled, “Nothing to be ashamed, c'mon Sandor.”

“I'm sorry. I was such a burden yesterday. You promised me to never make me drunk again.”

“I didn't do a thing.”

Sandor moved away Ifan's hands and rubbed his own face, knowing that, indeed, it had been his own fault alone. “Don't let me do it again. Never again. I can't deal well with… so much alcohol.”

“No, you can't.” Ifan chuckled, sliding a comforting hand on Sandor's shoulder, “And I won't promise you a thing unless you keep in mind that I love you.”

Raising his face from his hands, Sandor met Ifan's warm eyes, holding the moment in a comfortable silence. Then, he smiled, and timidly, he stole a peck from Ifan's lips.

“That's how I like it.” Ifan said. He had just decided that he needed to do it _soon._ Otherwise, this silly wizard was going to keep making stupid unnecessary things.

  
  


* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Sanders, Toyseller** [[Divinity: Original Sin II](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3832)]: Also known as Toyseller Sanders. Engineer from Divinity Original Sin 2, he was once part of the group that designed the Tomb of Lucian and the Path of Blood. Due to the natural confusion it may produce his name and Sandor's, I will use the form "Engineer Sanders" to refer to him, even though it may sound redundant in many cases.

**Swann, Gregorious **[[Divinity: Original Sin II](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3306)]: Healer close to Paradise Downs, who hosted Natalie Bromhead. He gives you the quest [A Danger to Herself and Others](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/A+Danger+to+Herself+and+Others), asking you to perform a surgical intervention to remove a worm from Natalie's brain. In some particular endings, it is explained that he will move out to the Bloodmoon Isle and will study the healing of the land.

**Yarrow, Lady or ex-Magister** [[Divinity: Original Sin II](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Magister+Yarrow)]: Ex-Magister from Fort Joy, daughter of Migo, a sourcerer that you find in Fort Joy beach yelling _Yarrow_.

  
  


**Deep-dweller**: [Canon] Just in case, I want to clarify that these particular Voidwoken are ones of the biggest we found during [our journey in the game](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/187465314852/viroqu-the-voidwoken-deep-dweller-is-so-pretty).

**Flying Machines**: [Half-canon] According to Divinity Lore, before and after DOS2, in times of Dragon Commander or Divinity II, there existed flying machines or Zeppelins. To connect the past and the future of both games, I assumed that they were Eternal engineering, used during the times of the Emperor Sigurd. They were lost for some millennia, and thanks to the prototypes developed by Engineer Sanders, they reappeared in the future of[ DOS2, also known as ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zeppelin)[Divinity II](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zeppelin) (even though it is another timeline).

  
  


  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

“It's a masterpiece.” Engineer Sanders said, softly clapping as if he were cleaning his hands after a long day of dirty work.

By his side, a group of Guardians walked near the Arx's walls and observed the cubes placed over them, equally distanced by several meters. Over each cube, a crystal charged with Source was levitating. 

“Last stage in the development, fully done, installed and functional. The Mestre put enormous amounts of Source in them to make it work without maintenance for several decades if we don't suffer any rough attack. This system triggers against Voidwoken mainly, but also against extra dangers.”

After a direct inspection of the system, the group continued discussing the details in the council room. Engineer Sanders kept explaining the extra enhancements he had added to the system by pointing out certain sectors on a blueprint extended all over the council table. Although he was careful where he put his finger on, nobody was understanding his jabber, but they were pleased. Ifan scratched his beard, pretending to follow his words while Lysanthir and DeSelby could not stop smiling like children. It did not matter the way it worked, what they knew was that this system was going to save many lives by giving them unthinkable advantages.

"So, with this... can we sense Voidwoken from afar?" Lysanthir asked, fascinated.

Engineer Sanders nodded, "More than that. Look at this device,” he pointed out a cube on the blueprints, and then took a small replica of it in the middle of the table, “It is inserted onto the system buried inside the walls. This sensor in the corner detects the Veil’s alterations, so if Voidwoken make a breach inside the city, or nearby, we will be aware of it within a couple of hours before they appear. We will be able to estimate with anticipation its approximate location too."

DeSelby whistled in surprise.

Ifan grinned, his pointy teeth flashing, "I like that."

"As you can see, the money spent on this project was worthy, and even though I could not get the excellence of Lizard crafting to build it, the Dwarven ones had a notorious improvement nonetheless."

"Excellent work, Sanders.” Ifan said, satisfied.

“My pleasure is to work for the city. Now, I have to focus on the flying machines.” Sanders bowed before them, gathered his blueprints and left the barracks. 

Content, they wrote the news in the report meant to Sanguinia Tell. It was good that this project could be finished before informing Ifan's temporary absence in the city. To leave Arx and put in charge only Lysanthir and DeSelby leading a bunch of still-under-training soldiers was making him restless. Especially when it had passed so little time since the swarm. But after seeing the potential of this system, improved and tested, he finally could calm down his nervousness. 

Ifan informed his decision first to DeSelby. Several months ago he had been dropping the topic here and there to test their reactions. Therefore, even though it had been a surprise coming from the main commander of the city, nobody complained. Ifan had never been secretive about his intentions to, eventually, return to the forest in order to clean that enormous cloud of  _ Deathfog _ on the map and plant new seeds in those damaged lands. He had a pending debt towards himself and to the elves, that he wanted to pay before dying. 

The defence system working perfectly was what determined his departure. It was more than wise to leave now that the last attack of Voidwoken was still fresh. It had been proven all over Rivellon that second attacks took many months to happen, even though they usually were more violent than the first one.

Despite the fact that everyone acknowledged his reasons to leave and his prudence in doing it soon after the last attack, most people were reticent to the idea of letting Sandor accompany him. Lysanthir had been truly worried about that; to take from Arx its main and most powerful healer, when the main commander was also absent, was a bit reckless. However, the last word was going to be given by the wizard. 

"Well, if everything is settled, I must leave, otherwise my wife will kick me from home. Everyday I've been coming home really late" DeSelby said.

Ifan beamed at her, his eyes bright in amusement. He shared with her that satisfaction of returning to a place he could call home after a long day of work and find nothing else but care and love. "Go then. Give her my respects. Good night."

After a nod, she left the room with fast strides. 

Lysanthir arranged the last reports for Sanguinia and walked with Ifan along the silent corridors of the barracks. The majority of their recruits were whether sleeping already or drinking in The Secret Corner, the not so secret tavern in the slums. 

They stopped at Ifan's chambers, and a mischievous smile curved Lysanthir's lips. "I don't mind an invitation."

Ifan put his hand on the door handle and looked at him with a cocked eyebrow. "You never give up."

"No. You never know when it will be my blessed day."

"You are carrying all that paperwork for Sanguinia, that's the most blessed you will get." He barked a laugh.

Arms crossed, Lysanthir put his long frame beside the door, close to Ifan, and observed him as if he were looking for a secret. "Tell me, are you interested in someone? You have been lonely for a long time since Nueleth. Don't you feel the weight of solitude?"

"Please, don’t reflect your own mood on me."

"Aw. That was rude." Lysanthir said, patting his own chest over his heart, and closed his hand in a fist, in a theatrical gesture of having a heartbreak.

"No, it was not. It’s just a mere observation." 

“A _mere_ observation,” Lysanthir smiled with that wicked gesture he usually wore when he could spot a trick, "You have been using many fancy expressions lately."

Ifan blinked, suddenly aware of how much of his own speech patterns had been affected by Sandor. To deny it was useless. "Too much time wasted in discussions with that man, his vices are contagious." He said pretending annoyance at the same time he hid the deep pleasure of realising that Sandor had already marked him in that way.

Lysanthir's smirk became broader, looking aside.  _ Vices _ .  _ Contagious. _ Ifan certainly spent too much time with a scholar that  _ seemed _ to bother him, indeed. He sighed. There was no use in insisting about something that evidently Ifan was avoiding to speak about. “Do you want to have dinner with me at the kitchen?”

“I'm going to bed. I'm too tired.”

“Without dinner?” Lysanthir cocked an eyebrow, adopting an inquisitive posture and observing every inch of Ifan's face. After a moment of silence, he added, “Well, have it your way. Good night.  Commander .” 

The elf strode away and Ifan remained at the door, looking at the elf’s back for a moment, confused. Lysanthir was so strange, he could never guess what kind of disturbing ideas were crossing his mind. Shrugging, he entered his room, took a hot bath, and wore his casual clothes. Once he was ready, he walked through the library along the well-known warm corridor.

He found Sandor napping on the bed. He chuckled at that sight; Sandor's dry hair was a mess -- quite unusual to see in such a well-groomed person. He was still wearing only his bathrobe -- another oddity in a man who always preferred to be covered from neck to toes and, if it were possible, under several layers of clothes. It was most likely that Sandor had collapsed on the bed after his bath, too exhausted to arrange himself as usual. After all, that had been the daily picture of their lives lately; they were now more drained than when they were living in the Lady Vengeance. 

Giving him some time to rest, Ifan crossed the room and entered the kitchen, ready to prepare a delicious dinner. Only when the steamy food was on their dishes, he decided to wake Sandor up. 

Ifan caressed Sandor’s head for a moment and, after noticing that the man was not awakening, he leant in and hugged him gently, without imprinting much of his own weight on him. A soft hummed complaint followed while lazy arms climbed up to his back. They remained that way for a moment. 

“Dinner is ready,” Ifan whispered. But that did not convince Sandor to release him from the hug. In fact, he tightened it. "Something wrong?"

Sandor hid his face in the curve of Ifan's neck. "Just had a bad day at the clinic. Two died. I couldn't do much. Used all my Source. But it was useless."

Ifan pulled him up to sit him on the bed. Far from releasing him, Sandor accommodated himself in Ifan's arms, caressing his back and nape while still breathing in his neck.

"You can't save everyone."

"I'm the one with a ridiculous amount of Source. The  _ best _ healer in town; not to sound petulant, but...  _ I am.”  _ Both of them chuckled after a silence, then Sandor's smile vanished, “Yet, I could not save two Guardians. "

Ifan raised his eyebrows. "Nobody informed me that we got two injured soldiers."

"No. They weren't from Arx; they came with the last refugees from the Northwest. They endured cursed wounds all the way here, while guiding their people. One of them was a mother of two. Her partner was… so broken. I was... It made me think... when will be our... turn." 

Sandor squeezed him, more reticent than before to leave him, while Ifan rubbed his back. It was understandable. Sandor was still suffering nightmares about the swarm. These dark times were a heavy toll for everyone. 

"Especially yours. I fear that, one day, I'll see you bleeding to death and I wouldn’t be able to heal you. If... what if it is too late for me to heal you? One day… that may happen... I..."

"Darling. Don't worry about things that may not ever happen.” Silent, both remained caressing their backs, feeling the dark mood of the moment slipping under their skins. “Besides, under that black garb we use, there is an old wolf still.” Sandor looked at him, fear tingeing his wet eyes. “You have no idea what I truly mean when I told you that I've survived war.”

Sandor smiled. Some relief reached his chest. It was true that he could not properly measure the magnitude of the hell that Ifan lived once, so he could not know for sure what Ifan was capable of to survive to the last consequences. He could only trust that the man was still hard enough to kill despite all those years after the end of the war. 

To break the brooding mood, Ifan playfully lifted Sandor in his arms and moved him to the living room, placing him on a chair in front of his dinner. He dragged his own seat close to him, and both had their meals sharing a deep closeness. 

“Engineer Sanders is done with the alarm system. That will give us more advantage over the Voidwoken. So, we will have a bit of time to leave Arx without dangers.” Ifan said, casual. 

Sandor raised his eyebrows, looking straight into his eyes. “ _ Leave _ ? Why?”

“I want to clean the forest.”

Sandor took a moment of silence, long enough to eat a mouthful of meat. “I-I know it's important for you, but... are you going to abandon your duty here?”

Ifan laughed. “I'm not a zealot of the Order anymore. The Guardians are not going to put a leash on my neck. Yet, I wouldn't leave the city in an irresponsible way. Lysanthir and DeSelby will be here. We also analysed other statistics. In general, the places that were attacked once are not attacked again during the following year, more or less. So, it's safer than ever to go now. There won’t be a new swarm soon.”

“That's not a safe assumption. Those statistics are rather poor. Only a few cities survived swarms.”

“It's what we got. This alarm system will help us too. We changed their training. They are tougher now. Besides, they can't depend on me forever. I've trained them to be efficient and independent. That's the philosophy I've imprinted in the Guardians.” 

Sandor remained silent, eating while thinking. 

“We can take this like a vacation too. Especially for you. You have been dealing with many things lately.” Ifan added, caressing Sandor’s wrist with his fingertips, observing the burnt skin of his hands. Subtly, Sandor moved his arm away, still affected by the odd sensations of the touch.

Sandor shook his head. “But I don't think I should leave the clinic...”

“Oh, come on. Don't you have enough people healing there? Professionals already? That elf that everyone speaks of, the old one. That one seems to be an efficient healer. Besides, people need to learn how to survive on their own. I think they had learnt a lot from all what we could offer in these almost three years. Don't you agree?”

“Well, it's true. Yet, I'm the only one, besides Arhu and Tarquin, who is researching on Source. And working on the cure of the silent monks. And I'm the only one who can read my tutor's work. He developed his own language.” 

“No excuses, Sandor. I guess you can be a couple of months out without many consequences. And who knows, maybe you will find something interesting in those forests. Something that may help you in your research. Or something else.”

Squinting at Ifan, Sandor twitched his lips, not fully convinced by those words. Ifan was hiding something, he knew it. That charming tone in his voice, the way he tilted his head and part of his long hair hung in the air, that damned raised eyebrow…. Ifan was performing his usual ruse to make people do exactly what he wanted to. 

“And there is something I need to do there, with you. It can't be done without you.” Ifan said. 

Ah,  _ that _ was the ruse. No doubts about it. Ifan was shamelessly blackmailing Sandor, exploiting his most unbearable weakness: curiosity.

They kept eye contact for a moment, and despite his scepticism, Sandor gave him a peck and ended up accepting the mysterious proposal. Ifan smirked deeply satisfied. 

* * *

By the night, Ifan appeared at the main door of Sandor's house, wearing his lone wolf outfit; it was a heavy leather armour with a wolf fur around his shoulders, a sword pending on his hips and his old but extremely well maintained crossbow on his back. A big bag of food and extra clothes and blankets was in his hands.

“I've already settled things up with the rest of the ranks. I even spoke with Sanguinia. We can be out for a couple of months.”

Sandor opened wide his eyes, “And how did that go with her?”

Ifan shrugged, “I’ll think about consequences when we return.”

“Oh, my.” Softly shaking his head, Sandor invited him into the house. When Ifan saw the disaster of bags spread all over the living room, he frowned at him. There was no way they would carry five bags with them.

“Don't make that face. I bring food, blankets, and some clothes.” Sandor said.

“Sandor, we have been travelling for a whole year before and you never carried anything of this.”

“We had the Lady Vengeance.”

Ifan opened the closest bag. Several books were covered with some blankets in order to protect their covers, and different types of heavy layered robes were folded under them. “Why do you need anything of this? We are not going to have leisure time to read. And certainly, in the forest, there will never be a ball...or something... to wear this.” He picked a beautiful silk robe with heavy Balurik embroidery and kept it in the air, his questioning eyes fixated on Sandor.

“You told me we were going to travel with some important elven groups. In case we have to be more formal-”

Ifan scoffed, “Elves give a fuck about your clothes, they live almost naked, Sandor.” Ifan laughed dryly. Certainly Sandor was a child of humanity, raised by the most useless people in the species.

Dismantling all bags again, Ifan helped him to pick the most vital things and reduced the five packs to a single one, not without a lot of frustration and disappointment from Sandor.

Before midnight, they left Arx by horse and headed to the North, surrounding the foot of the Dragon's Spine. Nearby the Beckonbridge Castle (*), they crossed a bridge that gave them access to a small valley where a group of elves had been waiting for Ifan. They were surprised to meet another human besides Melati's child. With deep respect, speaking in a precarious Elvish, Sandor performed a curious etiquette protocol that Ifan had taught to him. A simple signal with two fingers touching his own temple, then the corner of his lips, and finally his heart. 

They rested in the camp for a whole day and resumed their travel with the group towards the Northwest. The first signs of the  _ Deathfog _ could be seen in a small river running down. A thick layer of  _ Deathfog _ kept floating on its surface.

The elven druid that was accompanying them knelt at the edge of the river and cast Source, expanding it along the water in the form of glowing tendrils that captured most of the  _ Deathfog _ and burned it into green flames. The shared Divinity allowed them now to be able to clean not only water but also air. However, performing the latter demanded more Source, especially due to the enormous extensions they wanted to clean. 

It took them another whole day to reach the entrance of the Mezd desert. Ifan’s eyes turned slightly sad when the ground they were stepping one started to become mixed with sand, and the dry winds coming from that direction cracked their lips. That desert had always been a source of odd feelings for him. A place that could have been his home, but it never was.

From that point on, they headed to the West, this time helped by Sandor who could cast continuous blows of violent winds and long lasting tornados. In order to clean such thick fog they had to use violence as well, damaging and taking down all the dead trees in the process, burning them to ashes. It was meant to be this way. The purification had to be done through the air but also through the fire. 

In their path, they also found one of those monoliths that were frequent in the South of Rivellon. The small obelisk-like structure, with a floating crystal on its point was still a mystery that made Sandor feel uneasy. Ifan approached the pillar and performed an elven gesture of respect in front of it. The gesture agitated their elven companions who, surprised by the information that Ifan shared with them later, explained to him that those monolith had nothing to do with them. They were not a memory of the dead whose bodies were never recovered. The mystery now sunk deeper in Sandor’s mind. 

They penetrated the dead forest burning the dead trees at their wake. By the evening, they decided to stop since Sandor was starting to show the first symptoms of weariness; the constant cast of tornados was extremely demanding. The elves once again took care of the construction of a natural camp while Ifan and other elven hunters looked for their dinner. 

The next day, they spread the seeds over the long extensions of ashes left behind them. The rest was a matter of time. 

Repeating the process, they made their path to the centre of what the modern map of Rivellon had named the Banelands (*). An enormous crater in the middle of the terrain could be seen from any angle. The ground had sunk deep into the earth, and the densest fog was accumulated in its centre, as if it were a lake of pure  _ Deathfog _ . Ifan became paler at the sight of the terrible landscape. He had never been so close the place where Lucian had sentenced his family to death.

Sandor put his hand on the small of Ifan’s back, trying to comfort him as much as possible. Touched, Ifan thanked him for being with him there. There was deep shame in his soul for being responsible for that disaster. 

After a long talk about the strategy to use to contain the  _ Deathfog _ lake, everyone agreed in burying it down. With hands full of Source and small green tendrils glowing on his temples and neck, Ifan moved the earth slowly, cracking down the middle of the crater and raising its containing walls to cover the lake. The strange earthy dome closed on its top and sank into the ground, reaching the lava mantle in which he could burn the  _ Deathfog _ and destroy it in the depth of Rivellon.

The effort made him knelt, exhausted. But it had been worth it. Now the place looked like a barren valley and the dense  _ Deathfog  _ had disappeared. 

The elves spent the rest of the day spreading seeds on these recovered lands, and with elven chants and a kind of Source that Sandor had never seen before, made them grow into small trees the size of grass. It would take decades for them to turn into normal trees. 

Those tiny branches seemed to satisfy Ifan. They were the symbol of a starting point, the small latent incoming healing that he needed to be part of even though he would never see the final results with his own eyes. It was easy for Sandor to see that sadness in Ifan’s eyes despite his satisfaction in witnessing the beginning of recovery. Out of the blue, the thought of the growth spell that Sandor had been struggling with for a long time crossed his mind. He did not think he could add much to what the druids were doing, but considering this opportunity as a golden one to learn something else, he tried anyway. 

The hardest part, the one that required a movement of earth around the seed, had mostly been done by elven magic already. From that part on, the rest of the spell was easier for him, so letting his eyes burn in Source as wild tendrils spread all over his skin, Sandor made the small trees rise to the sky, thickening their trunks and turning denser their canopies. To finish the work, he cast a massive rain that covered these healed lands with a delicious deep petrichor scent. Ifan cried at the beautiful sight of the forest.

During days they repeated that exhausting routine. Cleaning the  _ Deathfog _ , taking down and burning the death trees, planting seeds, burning their Source to make them grow, blessing them with rich refreshing water, and resting for the rest of the day to recover their strength.

However, the repetition had to stop when they reached the borders of the former glorious elven city. The intricate branches of ancient trees that had been part of platforms and small houses for millennia were now massive and hollow trunks threatening to fall apart with the slightest wind. What was once a city with a vivid influx of elves going and coming, filling the air with music and chants and fresh herbal scents, it was now a dry graveyard covered with that thick cursed fog. The remaining landscape after the destruction. Ifan had grown running along those platforms, climbing them and hiding on them just to annoy Mother Melati. Nothing of that remained. 

With extreme care, Sandor cast winds to clean the place in all its levels, in order to make it safer for them to explore, but uncovered the worst images under the mantle of  _ Deathfog _ . It was the picture of a hellish nightmare. Hundreds of bodies started to appear under the fading fog. Elven corpses.

Those bodies had been preserved in their twisted and burnt forms by the  _ Deathfog _ . It was so deadly to any kind of living creature, that nothing could reach dead flesh in it to decompose it and turn it into bones by now. Instead, they remained as monstrosities, with their skin burnt and boiling bubbles fixated on their bark-skin. The faces, half deformed by the gesture of despair and the other half by the terrible physical effect of the mist, were impossible to recognise.

Everyone remained in silence, shocked, observing the moment of the detonation crystallised in time. At a corner of a platform Ifan could identify a body that, despite its deformation, was impossible for him to mistake. Mother Melati. He ran to the body and was tempted to touch it barehanded, but Sandor shouted at him just in time, making him stop by a scrape.

Frustrated, Ifan opened his eyes glowing in Source, and looked around, trying to find any lost soul.  _ Her  _ soul. But he found nothing. The spirit world in those cursed lands was as empty of souls as it was of life.

From his bag, Sandor took the gear that Tarquin had given to him. It was a kit of several long gloves covered in a strange greasy texture, and some long coats for the rest of the body. He gave them to Ifan, so he could manipulate the dead with safety. Other kits were given to some elves of the group, so they could give proper burial to those bodies. The rest of the elves crafted tombs with their mastery in geomancy, cracking the earth and breaking it in rectangles that engulfed the bodies. In each of them, they planted a different seed. It was an elven tradition. The memorial trees that would be the epitaph of those gone, and if they were lucky, could absorb the soul of the dead. 

They kept the intricate system of trees and platforms. They could not simply burn it down, but they turned them into stone to preserve the city as a petrified monument of the terrible history that had happened in those lands.

When the bodies were buried and the seeds planted, the elves and Sandor made new trees grow. They finished the day with a silent dinner, remembering the name of all those elves that they could recall, and carved their names with Source on the petrified trees left as monuments. Their bodies could not be honoured by the consumption of flesh, so they had to do it in that way.

That night, in their small tent made of branches, neither Sandor nor Ifan could sleep. 

Ifan's nightmares became relentless during the next few days. He even tended to unconsciously call for Afrit. More often than not, he woke up with intense cracks of Source on his temples, and looking for comfort in Sandor’s arms, he buried his face in Sandor’s neck allowing himself to burst into tears. Patient, Sandor would silently accept that pain while embracing him.

For years, Ifan had buried his traumatic memories of that fateful day. He remembered his desperate rush across the forest, holding that cursed device that he thought it was the only way to save his family. But when he was almost there, the explosion happened, followed by a deafening sound and a massive dizziness. And then, the horror. That image of the  _ Deathfog  _ spreading quickly and attacking his people was still fresh in his mind, especially now that it had resurfaced due to the cleansing.

He had been a witness of how his people choked to death and burnt in pain, crying in desperation for help, while Afrit, biting his leg, kept pulling him away from the  _ Deathfog _ . To lose everyone and everything, in front of his eyes, unable to do a damn thing, had devastated him. For years, he had lost his soul in the  _ Deadthfog _ . And seeing that terrible landscape again had only re-awoke his pain. His foggy memories became detailed once again.

Those days Ifan cried many times, letting himself be washed by the regrets and the devastation that he wanted to heal, at least a little bit, with that cleanse. This journey was not only a means to clean the forest, to make it grow anew, but it was also a way to heal his soul.

* * *

After three weeks, exhausted, the group saw their imprint behind their footsteps. Long extensions of lands that had been seen heavily covered with the deadly fog when they started their journey, were now clean and full of green vegetation. The view healed every one of them a little bit. Ifan had enjoyed the view in silence, and then, out of the blue, excitedly hugged Sandor, nuzzling in his head and thanking him for being part of this once more.

The group of elves decided where the new elven city would be rebuilt, and for several days, they worked on the first foundations of the new city. As a gesture of gratitude, the elves gave a small house in the entrance of the forest to Ifan and Sandor who, due to strategic motives, gladly accepted. To have a secret hideout close to the Mezd deserts seemed a good option to have.

Without any work to do while the elves were focused on the construction of the new city, Ifan invited Sandor to visit a lake nearby. He had promised him that the place had an interesting thing to see. The vague information of the invitation sparkled Sandor's curiosity, as Ifan had planned. After all, this was what truly convinced Sandor to leave Arx in the first place: the promise of finding something unique in these lands.

With a silly smile on his face, Ifan guided Sandor by holding his hand to help him walk on the slippery ground covered by new moss. Of course, he did not miss the opportunity to recall about Voidwoken ichor and Sandor's epic past falls. When they reached the border of the lake, Ifan sought a particular tree.

By the confusion of Sandor's face, watching him observe different trunks, Ifan laughed, explaining soon afterwards, "I'm looking for a tree that Mother Melati used to love. It's not the same, these are all new, but... It’ll replace that tree."

Sandor remained silent, surveying the lake's clean surface and appreciating the good cleansing work done while Ifan continued with his odd inspection of trees. With a sudden whistle, Ifan called him, so that Sandor joined him immediately. He looked at the trunk that Ifan was patting. Obviously, it was too young to have the usual rough texture of an ancient tree.

"Do you remember that time I gave you a necklace?” Ifan said, his eyes were too bright, almost teary. His happy anxious face was strange to see.

“The one  _ you _ threw into a pyre? I do.” Sandor said with a sarcastic tone and made a nervous smile immediately conscious of the unwilling poison poured in his remark.

Good humoured, Ifan chuckled. “The same… well. I told you I was going to give you something else… and… it's been some years since that time… " Ifan’s cheeks started to get a soft blush and a silly half smile was hardly held on his lips.

Sandor tilted his head, curious. What was happening with Ifan?.

From a small bag from his belt, Ifan took out a handkerchief folded in a complex way, as if it were the result of a ritual, then he remained silent, observing it. Ifan was strange. Nervousness was not a fitting trait in a man like him who was always exuding confidence in any aspect of life. Sandor was not sure if he had to worry about it or simply laugh it off. "I was not sure to do this before... with all the Divinity mess, and the low chances to get out alive from that time..." Ifan licked his lips and swallowed, "This has been on my mind for quite a long time. Too long, truth be told." He extended the handkerchief to Sandor, who blinked curiously. 

Unsure of what to do, Sandor took the fabric, assuming that something fragile was inside, but it was light, as if it were empty. He frowned a bit, confused. 

Ifan continued, "This should be honoured by Mother Melati’s presence, observing this process... but well..." Ifan looked down, then he patted that tree trunk close to him. “This has to do it. This tree represents her. I want to believe she is here, watching this while restoring these lands."

Sandor smiled, touched by that wonderful yet strange bond between a mother and her son. He looked at the handkerchief again and spoke, "Um... should I open it?" Sandor whispered, careful not to break the magical trance that Ifan was into. 

With a dry, soft laugh, Ifan rubbed his neck, becoming redder and redder. "Yes, yes. Please."

Sandor unfolded the handkerchief finding a long green ribbon inside. It was not a common one, remnants of magic were interwoven in it. He looked at Ifan with inquiring eyes, noticing the increasing nervousness in him. Sandor’s eyes jumped from Ifan to the ribbon and vice-versa.  _ What was this? _ “Um.... Thank you? I guess... I should.... let my hair a bit longer? To use it? or maybe I can tie it on my wrist?”

Ifan laughed openly. “Er...No. No. It's not like that...this is-” He cleared his throat many times, “... This... is an elven tradition. I-I should have given you the human equivalent first. My mistake...” Ifan took another folded handkerchief from his belt. His hands were now slightly trembling. 

Slowly, Sandor opened the second one, and found two silver rings in it. Only then the message hit him instantly like lightning. He opened wide his eyes and looked at Ifan, agape. Ifan gave him a fond smile, his ears red by then. His green, teary eyes could not transmit anything but gentleness and care. “They mean a question.” Ifan insisted, his voice husky.

Sandor beamed and hugged Ifan, squeezing him deeply. It was hard to imagine his daily life without that man, without his raspy voice, always talking in such a gentle tone. There was no way his answer could not be obvious by now.

"You... You... You had been thinking about this since  _ such _ a long time ago?" Sandor said, his mind in a rush, connecting all the scraps of information that Ifan had been given to him all that time, to finally make sense now with the symbol of a pair of rings.

"Of course. But back then we were not sure if we were going to be killed by Magisters, or Dallis, or Eternals... Well. We had more than one enemy.” He shrugged after a pause, “Not that it changed much now…” He chuckled, “... But... I don't want to waste another day in my life without telling you  _ this _ , without sharing this symbol, so your doubts can be gone for good, I hope... If you want to share this symbol, of course." Ifan looked down, fiercely red, as a hint of hesitation darkened his voice. "I want you to mark me." 

Sandor frowned. The last words broke the charm for him. “Mark?” His mind simply jumped to the marks in his ankles and wrists, to the mark in Sebille's face, to all the negative marks that he had always known in life. Marks were never good signs. 

Despite the silence, Ifan could understand the train of thought that his comment accidentally triggered, so he cupped Sandor's hands in his. "Well. I'm already marked by you. Your presence in my life has made such a mess. A mess I love. And I think I've done my own mess in yours, right?" 

Both chuckled. 

Ifan lowered his head and kissed Sandor's hands, careful, avoiding the ribbon and the rings to fall from them. Then he continued, “Marks, symbols, scars. Things that remain in us, whether they are still part of our life or not. You... you are  _ incredible _ . I hope you could see you like I do. I can't get tired of repeating it to you. You made me different. You already marked me, deeply. I want that mark in a symbol.” He said, a bit ashamed of his own intensity, looking aside. He knew he could be intimidating, and more often than not, completely carried away.

Sandor smiled, keeping all the objects in one hand while cupping Ifan's face.  _ Symbol.  _ That word was better. “I see. It will be an honour to share such a  _ symbol  _ with you.”

Ifan's nervous smile brought more wetness in his already teary eyes and some tendrils of Source appeared and faded violently on his temples and hands. Out of nowhere, Afrit walked by his side. Ifan was in the middle of a delightful storm of love and devotion too hard to hold on.

Full of vivid emotions, the wolf howled happily, and sat beside Ifan, moving his tail amicably at Sandor. Ignoring his sudden loss of control of his own Source, Ifan took both rings from Sandor's hand and gave him one. 

He cleared his throat and spoke, “I never minded much how this tradition goes. So… never planned a nice fancy speech for a scholar taste…” Ifan’s tone made Sandor laugh, “So... I give you this ring as a symbol of the damned mess you have done in my life, and how happy I'm about it. It's also a symbol of freedom. A lovely freedom of choosing what to do with my own life, after a long, long time of being lost and doing whatever others ordered me. And with that same freedom, I choose you, my dear.”

Ifan slid the ring in Sandor's burnt fingers and held his scarred hand for a moment, looking at him intensely with deep affection.

Ashamed for witnessing such bare emotions, Sandor had to break the intense gaze, feeling overwhelmed by that man, as usual. He took advantage of the interruption of their looks to take Ifan's hand. Ifan spread his thick scarred fingers to make the process easier, but Sandor kept the ring in the air, with his shaking hands, close to Ifan's finger, in silence. Both waited and waited, and Sandor did not move an inch. He sighed heavily. 

The sustained silence worried Ifan, who leant in trying to meet Sandor's eyes which were reluctant to quit observing that scarred hand. 

“Sandy, are you alright?”

Sandor nodded in silence. He spoke, his voice trembling, “I can't find the words.”

Ifan whistled. “What a shame for a scholar.”

Sandor cocked an eyebrow and looked at him with a fake gesture of annoyance that Ifan answered with a silly laugh rumbling in his chest. The joke was enough to relax Sandor, who looked at the ground and sighed again. “I've never imagined this in my life. I'm grateful. A ring can't express all what you have meant to me. What you  _ mean  _ to me now. I choose you, Ifan. Always.”

He finally slid the ring in Ifan's thick finger, one ring more in that hand full of them. Only in that moment Sandor realised that Ifan had never had a ring on that particular finger, making him wonder how much lack of interest in human tradition Ifan truly had.

“Well, like I said, I'm not much into the ring thing, truth be told. But I can't lie, I wanted to hear what was going to be your fancy speech ...” Ifan said receiving from Sandor a playfully annoyed half smile. “I was expecting more from you. Bad, bad.” He booped Sandor’s nose to remove that face on him. “Now...  _ this _ is what I wanted.” He took the green ribbon from Sandor’s hand. “Elven tradition. The ribbon of the bond.”

The name made Sandor remember it immediately. Long time ago Ifan had talked to him about the ritual of elven marriage, when they were in the Lady Vengeance, flying over the odd lands of the Hall of Echoes. Ifan had explained to him how the ritual crafted a unique symbol on the partner's skin. This symbol made of elven magic took a different form depending on that person's life and the moon they had been born under. He even remembered how sad Ifan became when he explained the weight of his damned moon. The waxing moon of a partner was always a painful mark to carry. It was going to lighten its curse on its owner’s shoulders but would put extra weight on his partner’s.

Ifan extended his hand upside as an invitation that Sandor did not hesitate to accept. Both knelt on the ground, close to each other, while Ifan, fond smile curving his lips, kept reciting elven words. He put Sandor's palm over his, moved his shackle a bit down, and wrapped the green ribbon around their hands and wrists. Warmth started to emanate from the ribbon and spread slowly to their palms and from there to the rest of their body. 

Ifan spoke, “Mother Melati should be the one wrapping our hands. I'm doing it with her in my mind. My fresh memory of her,” He smiled at Sandor, and then focused on their hands, “You'll feel some part of your body burning, wishing to touch me somewhere.  _ From love to mind. From mind to skin. From skin to fire _ . Don't stop the wish. It's the translation of the emotions to movement to burning on the bark.” Sandor opened his eyes a little bit more, worried. They were not elves, their skin was not made of bark, and to be honest, he had enough burns in his life. But he simply trusted in Ifan and sighed to release his tension.

His worry stopped when Ifan closed his eyes and gasped as if a swirl of energy had filled him all at once. Ifan's free hand was suddenly covered in green flames. When he opened his eyes -- now unfocused and glowing in Source -- he looked at Sandor's chest. He approached his flaming hand to Sandor's left pectoral and pressed it there. The flames, ignoring the clothing, burnt the skin.

Taken aback by that searing pain that made him remember the recent fight against the Void Dragon, Sandor groaned, unable to restrain tears of pain jumping from the corner of his eyes. The feeling changed into another, as if his pectoral were lacerated, and imaginary claws were sinking to tear apart his beating heart.

Ifan nuzzled against Sandor's neck, unable to do anything to soothe that pain. This was a mark of the cursed moon. There was no doubt about it. Ifan only left a peck on Sandor’s cheek as a silent apology while the ritual followed its course. By the end, Sandor closed his eyes and pressed his lips in a thin line to remain stoic. When the mark was done and the glow in Ifan's hand disappeared, Sandor could finally sigh. After the pain, a gentle warmth spread all over his body, and the refreshing relief of healing washed his soul. Heavily breathing, Sandor took a moment to recover from the experience.

“Sandy, are you alright?” Ifan whispered in Sandor's ear, tortured. Sandor only nodded in silence.

Once Ifan's part was finished and Sandor recovered his breath, the second part of the ritual started. 

Sandor drew back and looked at Ifan. Something forced him to close his eyes, and after a surge of Source penetrating him all of a sudden, he noticed his own lips burning. It was not the same kind of burning he had suffered a moment ago but a painless one. The same force that had closed his eyes, now made him open them, and the sight in front of him appeared heavily blurred, as if it were covered by a thick veil of green colour. The only shape that made sense in that cloudy image was a pair of lips. Ifan’s lips. It followed an intense thought that kept repeating in his mind, non stop, telling him -- almost ordering him-- to devour those lips. Overwhelmed by that desire, he did so. He kissed Ifan softly and gently at first to deepen it later, full of passion. 

Ifan felt his lips burning and thousands of sparks crackling in his stomach as he received the mark submissively. All his body trembled like a teenager during their first kiss. Such a fitting symbol for being Sandor’s mark. 

The ribbon around their hands burnt all of the sudden and its ashes floated around them for a while. The green burning on Ifan lips slowly darkened and a small scar-like mark was left. However, this was not a mere scar but a simple variation of colour without any change of its texture. An extremely rare mark which nature could only be guessed by elves under a thoughtful inspection. 

Ifan smiled warmly, caressing his own mouth while feeling the new mark on the right side of his lips. A gentle but an intense mark, like those born under a waning moon. So fitting for Sandor.

Like a child too eager to reveal a mystery, Ifan quickly started to unbutton Sandor's robe without even asking.

Sandor blinked, “What are you doing? Are you serious? Here? In the open?”

Ifan chuckled. “No. I just want to see it.” 

He struggled with the robe while Sandor shook his head, unable to believe that childish and eager behaviour. When Ifan finally opened it and exposed Sandor's left pectoral, his face full of expectations contracted into a sad and bitter frown. That chest was now crossed from his collarbone to ribs with three broad lines extending over his heart; across part of his star-like scars.

It was the shadow of a mark that resembled cruel claws. Ifan could not avoid the mixed feelings that his own mark inspired, especially when he had seen a different one on Nueleth, decades ago. Of course, he knew his mark had changed with all what he had lived so far; it could not be surprising. But from a dense canopy tree to turn into a cruel claw seemed to be too much of a symbol. Feral claws that were relearning how to protect again instead of killing.

Putting aside his own self-loathing sentiments, Ifan buttoned Sandor's robe and embraced him, in silence, squeezing him. As a response, Sandor kissed his neck.

The moment was broken when Afrit howled in happiness. Both grinned at each other nervously, while they stood up on their feet once again and felt something had changed them deeply. The ritual of the bound was going to leave their bodies and minds too sensitive for a couple of days, until they could get used to the link. 

* * *

Most part of the forest had been cleansed and revitalised, and by the end of the month, the landscape that once had been a picture of death and despair, was now an ocean of dense green canopies. 

However, the process took a heavy toll on Sandor. He could barely move due to the intensity of the Source ashes, his muscles were in permanent pain. Some days his body was even unresponsive to magic, even without his shackles. It was unthinkable that he could reach that state due to his usual fast recovery rate, but it seemed that Source regeneration had a limit. Rest had turned into a must.

Seeing this, Ifan decided that their contribution in those lands had been enough for both. The forest had been healed and surpassing all his expectations, he had been witness to this process despite considering himself undeserving. The rest of the elves were going to keep working from then on, transforming this place in what it had been once, if not better.

They returned crossing the brand new forest. When they reached its borders, close to the entrance to the desert of Mezd (*), the elves stopped and made grow the small humble house they had promised to Ifan as a gesture of gratitude. Ifan could not feel himself more undeserving of such a gift. He would have rejected the honour of having again a place in the borders of his childhood home if it were not for the tactical use that such a house could have. After that, the elves gave the humans good wishes and returned to the depth of the forest to continue with their work.

Ifan decided it was better to rest in that hut, not only to let Sandor recover a bit of his powers but also to test the comfort of the small house. They appreciated the hut on the outside, observing the strange way it was built out of trees, bent and stuck in such a manner that their branches gave form to the walls and windows. On the inside, there was no separation between rooms, only a big space where twisted branches made part of the furniture: a big bed, a table, and some shelves.

For Sandor, that house was what he had always dreamt of; a home with enough room for books, in the middle of a forest, humble enough to lead a simple reading life. It could be the best place to take a break from their responsibilities if they could live in a peaceful world. Maybe it was a worthy dream to have, at least as long as the war against the Voidwoken lasted. The thought did not bring much relief. What if this war would never end? He put those thoughts aside and reminded himself that his current life in Arx was better than anything he could have imagined ten years ago.

That night, after the dinner that Ifan hunted and roasted, they slept as soon as they accommodated their tired bodies on the bed. The next day, they returned to Arx by horse.

During the last days of cleansing the forest, Sandor sorrowfully realised the problems of having a ring in his hand. Due to his mastery of fire and electricity, he had to remove the ring from his finger. Those elements affected the metallic material and hurt his hand, now more sensitive to his own magic due to the extensive burnings. To fix that sad face that Sandor wore by knowing he had to keep the ring in a pocket, Ifan took one of the chains around his own neck and threaded the ring with it, turning it into a necklace for him. As a second ceremony, not even less ritualistic like the exchange of rings, he put the necklace around Sandor's neck. He beamed at him. 

The inconvenience turned out to be a not-so-bad idea, after all. Talking about it during their trip back to Arx, they concluded that Sandor wearing such a particular ring in such a particular finger would have brought a lot of unrequited attention to them. Everyone knew the wizard, unlike Ifan, never used accessories in his hands. Wearing the ring as a necklace under his high-necked robes was for the best. Ifan would still wear that ring on his finger. There was no way that anyone could notice the new detail considering how full of them his hands used to be. 

The first thing they saw when approaching the city was the many corpses of Voidwoken that had been fulminated nearby the walls. Close to the entrance, some Guardians were dragging the deformed bodies to a side, piling them up in rudimentary pyres to burn them later. 

"Did we have an attack?" Ifan said to one of the first Guardians he came across, his voice full of commanding tone.

The Guardians smiled at the sight of their commander and bowed at him in signal of respect, returning to their casual demeanour later. "Everything is under control, Sir. Just cleaning the mess. This is the result of the new defence system."

Sandor dismounted his horse and approached one of those bodies, touching its consistency with the point of his staff. He stretched the wings of what looked like an overdeveloped cicada deformed by Source. "Could you bring the smallest specimens to the academy? These Voidwoken are... rare. They don't disintegrate at touch." He said to one of the soldiers.

"Are you going to have these in your studio too?" Ifan dismounted his horse too, and looked at Sandor with a face distorted in repulsion and confusion.

"This is unusual. We need to understand it."

Ifan rolled his eyes and looked at the first pyre setting on fire in the distance; the flames turned violent at the touch of the Voidwoken bodies.

"Oh, what a good sight to sore eyes! You finally came." Lysanthir's voice reached Ifan's ears who turned a bit to smile at the elf. Displaying an excess of camaraderie, Lysanthir put an arm around Ifan’s neck and patted his chest. "Almost two months, Ifan. I was missing you so much."

Not wanting to overthink those affairs anymore, Sandor excused himself and left the group, not without the help of three Guardians that started to drag the smallest Voidwoken bodies into the city. 

Frowning at that scene, Lysanthir abandoned his friendly embrace and approached Sandor, stopping the other Guardians. "No, wait. What are you doing? I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Sandor looked at him with curiosity while Ifan put in words his thoughts. 

“Is there any danger in these corpses?” Ifan said. 

“Oh, in those? No. Not much that I know of. But if you go inside dragging these things, you are going to be in greater danger.  _ Political danger. _ ” Lysanthir's tone displayed some degree of graveness.

“Care to explain?” Ifan said. 

"Our dear  _ governor  _ — yes, that's how that crazy woman calls herself now since your departure — has been annoying Arhu during your absence. Of course this is not new. But... another silent monk appeared ten days ago, and she claimed it was this wizard illness delusion. Sadly to say, the concept is catching. Some people have been feeling their Source unstable or diminished, and she has spread the rumour that wizards are maintaining their own power by consuming someone else's Source, leaving them like empty husks after some time. Yes. She means the monks."

"Such a stupid argument." Sandor said.

"Indeed. But the concept is earning more and more supporters.” Lysanthir shrugged, and then smirked at Sandor, “And this suspicious man you left working in the academy doesn't help. He takes strolls with a Gueist as a pet. He is the terror of the people.” He pointed out the Voidwoken corpses, “Certainly, you walking across the city with these dead things will only help to feed all those suspicions."

Sandor frowned at the deformed bodies, caressing his own chin with a finger. "But it is important. We need to understand why these Voidwoken-"

"Don’t get me wrong, I get it. Let me bring you those at midnight. Inform Arhu about it. We need to be discreet."

Ifan raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, curious by that soft interaction between Sandor and Lysanthir. Or the secret marriage had suited Sandor too well to deal normally with Lysanthir, or that scene was only a simple gesture of scholar camaraderie. After all, the elf was curious about most things in life he could not understand with a mere glimpse, his scholarly past was always showing. 

With a bow of gratitude, Sandor turned on his heels and walked into the city alone, heading straight to the academy. He needed to speak with Arhu and Tarquin. 

Done with the Mestre, Lysanthir focussed on Ifan. With a silly smile on his face, he approached him once more, dodging several Guardians that were still piling up the monstrous bodies to burn them up. However, his smile frost at the sight of something that had changed on Ifan's face. Inspecting him closer, he leant in to be at Ifan’s height and squinted at the commander's lips. He could see a discreet yet clear mark on the right side of his lower lip. Lysanthir even dared touch it with the tips of his finger, but Ifan's quick reaction grabbed his wrist violently. Surprised, Lysanthir stared at him without sharing a word, silently asking for an explanation of such excess of aggressiveness. Uneasy, Ifan excused his manners claiming it had been just a mere instinctive reaction of his hand. 

"A new scar? Did you get problems in the forest?" Lysanthir said. 

Ifan drew back pretending to be annoyed for the proximity. "Yeah, some fighting here and there."

"And the mighty Mestre, the best healer in Arx, endless production of Source, could not heal your wounds?"

Ifan chuckled. "His Source is far from being endless. Besides, he cleaned the forest. He spent days without Source or magic of any type. Go figure."

After a short silence, Lysanthir's smile disappeared. "Yes. I figure."

Lysanthir kept squinting at him, noticing how Ifan was derailing his focus on irrelevant topics about Arx security to keep the elf’s curiosity far from his lips. When the awkwardness was too much to deal with, Ifan left the entrance and went to the barracks, excusing himself about reporters that needed to be filled for Sanguinia Tell to read. But that subtle evasion was not going to stop Lysanthir. 

* * *

When the Sun was falling in the West, and orange colours of sunset bathed Arx, Sandor returned to his little home after having spent the whole day in the academy. Arhu had informed him of the general situation of the city. Besides the new silent monk that appeared a week ago, and people's reaction fed by Sanguinia Tell's delusional theories about wizards, there had happened extra disturbing events. New cases of Source fading had to be added to those that were already treated in the clinic, and sadly, those new cases were used by Sanguinia Tell to spread ill rumours about Arhu. It had had an effect. 

For the first time in Arx, under daylight, Arhu had been confronted in the middle of the street by a frightened man that accused him of devouring his own Source to keep his power and, as a result, attract Voidwoken to the city. The rumour had been twisted in such a way, that now people were linking the apparition of the Void creatures with a supposed Source draining process performed only by wizards. 

Although Arhu tried to convince this man about his mistake, more people joined the discussion in the middle of the street, in favour of the man's accusation. For centuries Arxians had appreciated Arhu's presence in the city and tolerated all the irregularities that Magisters had caused without blaming the cat-wizard of any disgrace. But now, the people’s favour had finally come to an end. The tension of the confrontation did not escalate to turn into a lynch thanks to Arhu’s soft tongue and sharp mind, but the event was enough to leave a precedent. It was just a matter of time or simply a particular last straw to turn the situation into an uncontrollable mess in which the most powerful protectors of the city would end up killed by the same people they claimed to protect.

Tarquin had also shared his bits of worries. He kept remembering Sandor the need to look for that alchemist he had talked about some time ago, and bring her to Arx in a desperate attempt to unstuck their research. She had a chance to make the black mirror work again and help them in the development of a cure for the silent monks. And who could know, maybe she could even help them to understand the phenomena of fading Source that was making everyone so nervous. What they desperately needed was to find solutions that could calm the agitated mobs that Sanguinia was feeding.

But those were problems to start to worry about from the next day on. For that day, he just wanted to return to his home and have a deserving rest. During all those weeks in the wild, he had missed the hot bathtub of his home, the warmth of a well heated house, and the softness of a big human bed. He desperately wanted to finally sleep in his own bed. However, a silly smile curved his lips when the thought of beds brought him the memory of that ring in the necklace he was wearing under his robe. The word  _ husband _ resounded in his head and made him giggled. Life had ridiculous unexpected twists despite the piles of problems.

* * *

He put his feet in his house and sighed. He had missed this quiet well-known place, the floral scent of the several flowerpots spread in each room, the warm light of the candles reflecting on the rustic walls, the silence interrupted sometimes by the sound of a page being turned. It was sad to think that he had to leave this little heaven almost on the same day he had returned.

Putting aside those sad thoughts, he took a short yet relaxing bath and spread all his books on the table of the living room. He read some in order to refresh several spells of searching and tracking that may be handy since his travel to Driftwood could not be delayed anymore. 

The famous alchemist Infirma was not only a scholar interested in  _ Deadfog _ , but also a Source hobbyist. Since Source had become a common feature in every living creature of Rivellon, she also had dabbled in unknown topics related to it. Her fresh perspective on the matter could give interesting insights in any potential true cure for the silent monks, or even better, for the strange phenomena of the flickering Source. 

While reading, Sandor unconsciously touched his neck, finding the thin chain that, from now on, he would always wear. Pulling it out, he grabbed the threading ring and observed it on his palm. A silly smile crossed his lips but lasted a second. Travelling with Ifan and the elves allowed him to understand elven traditions much better. Certainly, it was not the same as reading books written by humans. 

He could feel that his relationship with Ifan had been deepened. To leave now and look for this alchemist did not feel right. Especially considering they had still echoes of the elven bond reverberating in their bodies, making them a bit more sensitives to their physical distance. 

Lost in his thoughts, once again Sandor did not realise about the presence of someone else until strong arms wrapped his body and hugged him from behind. A fresh scent of an herbal bath surrounded him and an itchy beard tickled his neck. His smile broadened, lowering his own hands to caress those scarred ones resting on his stomach, and he pushed his back against that body, making the contact more intimate. The still lingering magic of the bond made their bodies shiver with the proximity.

“Always giving your back.” A joyful tone tinged Ifan's voice.

Sandor did not answer. It was one of the many inner jokes they shared. 

“Hell, are you studying? We have just returned and you are already reading?” Ifan said resting his chin on Sandor's shoulder looking at the several books spread on the table. It was impossible to find Sandor not reading something at any moment. And he claimed that such a scholarly lifestyle had never been of his own choice. It was hard to believe it.

“I...I need to refresh some spells.” He said, evasive. Without more explanations, he stood up and both went to the kitchen. They needed to prepare something fast to eat and go to rest early.

During dinner, Ifan shared the good news from the barracks: the new defence system was working like a charm, killing small groups of Voidwoken without the need of soldiers around. The bad news was that, due to this efficient system, Sanguinia Tell started to spread  _ more  _ ill rumours about the city's wizards, now that she had a false sense of safety. Sandor already knew about that, and shared with Ifan everything that Arhu and Tarquin had told him before. Well,  _ almost _ everything. 

Sanguinia’s rumours were a looming danger that kept them in silence, thinking about it. They had to take some action, eventually. But for now, there was nothing to do.

They usually performed a routine before going to sleep and after their nocturnal tea. Ifan would give a proper maintenance of his weapons at the edge of their bed, while Sandor, already in, would read some pages of his romantic teenager novels. This time, however, Sandor went into bed without any book and remained silent, observing Ifan clean his sword, shield, and crossbow. When he was bored enough, he crawled towards him and slid his hands inside Ifan's shirt, hugging him. Sandor’s cold fingers made Ifan jerk, but after a moment of adjustment, the soft caresses on his belly pleased him. He drew against him to feel Sandor's chest on his back and his soft breathing over his shoulder. He loved to have him this way, especially if it were skin against skin. 

“You are giving your back to my bed entrance.” Sandor whispered in his ear. Ifan chuckled, but the sound turned into a long hum when the whisper finished in kisses on his neck, and those hands on his stomach ran up on his chest. Ifan tried to keep focus on his weapon, but Sandor was excellent in kissing his most sensitive points. The tip of Sandor’s tongue in the back of his ears was unbearable in pleasure. Then, Sandor's soft bites ran down to reach his neck, making it impossible to clean his weapon any longer.

Sandor pushed Ifan's shirt over his head and continued his path of kisses and bites along his back. The more Ifan tried to recover his focus on his weapon, the more intense Sandor became, starting to play with bits of magic in his fingertips.

“Aren't you with- with Source ashes?” Ifan asked with effort, as Sandor's licked his shoulder. 

“This is almost no magic.” He whispered, as his fingertips covered with a thin layer of ice caressed Ifan's nipple, placing his warmed palms on them afterwards, and moved his hands in circles as little discharges gave him pleasant tickles. 

Ifan lowered his head, his hands useless to keep cleaning his weapon, and closed his eyes, moaning. 

"We never got our wedding night." Sandor's voice was low and playful, his hot breath hitting Ifan's ear. How could he be in such a mood after that long travel?, after having burnt his Source many times to the point of having several levels of Source ashes hurting every corner of his body?.

Moving aside, Sandor pulled Ifan’s chest forcing him to rest his back on the mattress while carefully, Sandor took the weapon from his hands and placed it on the floor. Then, he climbed onto his lap, straddling him. 

Ifan chuckled, nervous and full of expectations as his cheeks became slightly red. He wanted this, but… But he was damned tired. As if Sandor could have read his mind, he placed his hands glowing in a blue hue on Ifan's knees, far away from his face to avoid any sneezing attack. A wave of rejuvenation and invigorating energy spread in all his body, removing the tiredness in seconds.  _ Ah, that was the trick _ . 

Sandor continued playing with Ifan's chest, splaying his hands on it, some times caressing it, some times softly scratching. 

Feeling the blush getting more intense, Ifan lifted his body a little bit, inviting Sandor to kiss him. The butterflies in his stomach appeared once more as the mark on his lip reinforced the same sensations that had been imprinted during the ritual. He looked at Sandor with a lusty broad smile, all bare pointy teeth.

“Is this a teasing?” Ifan said.

“It will be if you want to. What do  _ you _ want it to be?” 

Ifan chuckled again, nervous. His ears were already red. “Are you alright?” It was so rare to see Sandor so damned sexy.  _ Had he read a smutty part of that silly novel before heading bed?  _

Sandor kissed him to make him stop talking and caressed the side of his ribs until, tired of the kiss, he slowly went down towards his chest, placing more bites and kisses in his neck, never marking it, to finally reach his nipple. His tongue swirled around it, sometimes turning its tip colder, other times warmer, as his hands, sprayed on Ifan's sides, kept playing with little discharges. 

Ifan lost his breath in a few seconds as his lust grew violently. This was a more intense Sandor that had not been there before. And that worried him. He did not want to repeat mistakes, so he stopped him when Sandor attempted to go farther down. 

Ifan sat again, feet grounded on the floor, and surrounded Sandor's waist with his arms, forcing him to stay on his lap, straddling. He embraced him tightly and rested his forehead on Sandor's chest. The pressure that this position applied on their groins was a delicious interference with his thoughts.

“Are you alright? With all this, I mean.” Ifan insisted, hesitant. He looked up, meeting those bright brown eyes. Sandor smirked as if he were defying him with his silence. And he accepted it. In a firm movement, he removed Sandor's shirt. Not feeling his skin on his own was frustrating. He kissed Sandor's chest, his beard tickling a bit, and stared at the mark on that pectoral in front of him. A long, claw-shaped mark. He kissed it; the still fresh link of the bond resonated in their bodies stronger while both marks kept in contact. 

Sandor moaned, pain and pleasure emerging from the mark where Ifan's lips rested. That soft sound awoke more lust in Ifan, who drew back a little bit. His breath was getting heavier. 

“Is this alright? Aren't you tired? The Source ashes...” Ifan repeated, resting against that chest again, pressing with his cheek the ring that was pending from Sandor's necklace. Ifan snuggled, rubbing the ring, inhaling Sandor's home-like scent, embracing his warmth, accepting his hindered lust. Oh, he wanted so much to agitate Sandor’s calm breathing and snatch from his lips those soft sounds of pleasure.

Drawing a kind smile on his lips, Sandor cupped Ifan's face and leant in, devouring his mouth. Ifan groaned deeply, set on fire. The fresh bond was amplifying his emotions and his lust, overwhelming him with the sudden burst of the feeling of fire butterflies inside his belly. His cheeks were feverish. His groin was hard. His heartbeat became a drum in his ears. Yearning for further contact, he grabbed Sandor's thighs and pulled them closer, deepening down on his groin in order to seek for friction. The intense kiss ended, and their lips were separated. Ifan certainly wanted more.

“Do whatever you want with me. Just do it.” Ifan whispered out of need, still drunk in the emotions and the sensations caused by the bond. 

Chuckling, encouraged by such sensual words, Sandor rubbed his hips against Ifan. A game of temptations, a pressure that triggered a wave of heat from Ifan’s belly to his head, snatching more lewd sounds from his lips. 

The wizard was enjoying the taste of having control, Ifan could see. After all, he was free to do whatever he wanted to him. It was a power he never had, and wielding it now, before Ifan, filled him with something that was close to desire. However, as usual, Sandor hesitated what to do, what could truly feel good for both, and in the process, the doubts lowered his sensuality. Those touches that had just set on fire Ifan, ended up in stand-by caresses, full of vacillation and fear. 

Curious by this progressive change of mood, Ifan touched Sandor's cheek with a hand, while the other rested on Sandor’s neck. “Did I say something wrong? Something felt wrong?”

Sandor smiled. He took Ifan's hands and placed them on his small back, approaching his bare chest so Ifan could kiss and lick his nipples. Obedient to the unspoken order, Ifan used his mouth as it was asked, but carried away, he slid his hands further down, and grabbed Sandor's rear pulling him closer. The gesture made Sandor jerk, his shoulders hunched, and all his body immediately drew away from Ifan. Source tendrils glowered intensely over Sandor’s skin, and a few small sparks of Source jumped from his shackles. That had been close to a blast.

“Damn, sorry.” Ifan said, guilty, and placed his hands on Sandor’s waist once again. The mood had been ruined short. “I should not touch there, right?” 

After a sigh to calm his passion, Ifan looked down, sad. He had memorised a long list of things that had to be avoided in intimacy. His body weight on Sandor, the grab of Sandor's wrists, raising Sandor’s arms over his head, and now this touch. He was running out of options. 

“No. It's not... I need to get used to it.” Sandor sighed, as tortured as Ifan. 

Ifan noted in that moment that, unlike him, Sandor's groin had not experienced any change. The moment had been intense and yet, it had not even caused a half erection. Full of fears again, Ifan assumed that that was a clear sign that the good moment had been only good for him. 

Sandor took Ifan's hand and guided it to his chest mark. He closed his eyes when he pressed that palm against it. He frowned, his jaw became tense, as a sharpening pain echoed all inside his body. Ifan's mark was intense and harsh, the cruel nature of Ifan's moon, but after the roughness, the feeling of warmth followed, pouring relief where there had been pain. Like the relief that follows the healing of a deep wound. 

Mischievous, still keeping that hand on his chest, Sandor kissed Ifan, activating his own mark on him. Somehow, the fresh bond allowed them to perceive scraps of what the other was feeling, in a closed and constant feedback. The warmth relief gave pass to a rowdy tickle in their stomachs just to restart once again filling them with pleasure. They broke the contact, seeing each other in the eyes, and chuckled a bit at the experiment they were performing, recovering part of the mood that had been lost. 

“Well, that was... interesting.” Ifan said, his voice husky. 

Sandor licked his own lips. The experience had just given him enough courage to perform what had been flitting in his mind since they had reached Arx for the first time. The most meaningful gift that he could give to Ifan. A gift that could be so important as that ring pending from his neck. A gift that no elf could give to him.

“I have an  _ interesting _ idea.” Sandor whispered. His voice was still a bit taken by the echoes of the mutual sensations. “Move to the middle of the bed.” He commanded. 

Ifan raised his eyebrows. “I can’t move. You are on me.”

“Deal with it.”

Ifan scoffed. He put Sandor's arms around his neck and grabbed Sandor's waist, dragging them both in a graceless way to the middle of the bed. In the process Sandor's ankle got stuck with the blankets and the movement ended being even less sensual. They laughed at the mess. 

“Sorry, first time literally dragging someone along the bed.” Ifan said, letting his back fall in the middle of the mattress while pulling Sandor with him. He enjoyed that light weight on him. Sandor lifted a bit, enough to be face to face. The position only imprinted more pressure in Ifan's groin, making him more eager for whatever Sandor was thinking. Straddling on him once again, Sandor kissed him. 

There was not going to be a better moment than this one to show Ifan this particular spell. A spell that Fane had taught him some time ago, that with some recent modifications, Sandor considered it would work in a way that could give Ifan what he desired the most. 

“Stick your tongue out.” Sandor said. 

Ifan frowned just a bit but did as he was asked. With two fingers over his tongue and moving them in strange patterns, Sandor recited a spell in a language that Ifan could not understand. Then, he removed one of his shackles for a couple of seconds and wore it again. He needed some remnant of Source he could not access. He clapped his hands once, and small glowing green wisps were ejected with the explosive movement. They floated in the air around Sandor, playfully going out and into his own body.

“What’s this?” Ifan asked, charmed by the calm transpired in the scene in front of him while his still thirsty lust kept urging him with an extended heat all over his body. 

“Take them into you but don’t consume them. It’s my Source.”

Doing as he was told, Ifan closed his eyes and let the wisps enter his body, noticing in the process that such a request was incredibly intimate. Bits of Sandor's soul were penetrating his own. At the same time, Sandor continued touching Ifan’s chest, kissing his neck, relaxing him to let the exchange of Source be willingly and peacefully. Then, Sandor moved aside, laying on his side. He told Ifan to turn over too and face each other. 

“Lick it.” Sandor said and buried his head on the pillow, exposing his neck. 

Curious, Ifan did so. Licking had always been his worst habit, unable to control it when he wanted to know more about that man but always a source of endless frustration. Two, three, four times he licked that neck, and in one of those licks, a memory bloomed in his mind, out of the blue. A big garden full of flowers and intense sweet scents. There was an old woman in this scene, looking at him. She smiled motherly.

Ifan stopped short, shocked. He opened his eyes and looked at Sandor, puzzled. 

“That was Eleny,” Sandor whispered, allowing his memory to progress. He gave Ifan his hand, and placed it close to his mouth. “You can lick it.”

Surprised, hard to believe that  _ that _ was happening, Ifan did so. A dry lick along Sandor's wrists, a bit interrupted by the shackle, brought him more images of that garden. 

Closed eyes as well, Sandor kept stabilising the delicate balance of the spell. He wanted to give to Ifan the illusion of an elven tongue, at least for a moment. The spell was challenging for him, especially in that situation. Sandor had to command his little bits of Source in and out Ifan's body while maintaining the sensual context they were in. Every time he felt Ifan's lick, he had to cast the memories at the same time. The effort was great considering that he had to pick them from his messed-up mind which was all the time bringing him horrible events from the past, and the tiredness of their previous trip that had added many levels of Source ashes. Maybe this had not been a good idea after all. But so far, the effort was highly rewarded when he saw the bright smile on Ifan's face and heard his little sounds of joy. 

Indeed. Ifan's face was like a child's, enjoying a gift that he always thought forbidden. Nobody in his life had given him this; to feel, for the first time, that his tongue was a bit more than a useless thing was overwhelming. He gasped in pleasure, impacted by the depth of the gesture. 

The image of the garden faded after a moment, so he looked for more. He pulled Sandor and licked his jaw, stripping some memories of more flowers from that garden, even the sound of a little bird. He chuckled. 

Carried away, like a wolf who wants more of a meatless bone, Ifan started to softly push Sandor into the mattress and climb onto him, licking his shoulders and neck, biting, swirling with the tip of his tongue the places in that body that seemed to hide the most beautiful memories. Sandor was doing a wonderful work of coordination that was starting to wear him down at the same time that, without noticing, Ifan was placing more and more weight on him. He tried to enjoy the moment, while focussing on the spell. But truth be told, the situation was becoming harder to balance over the seconds.

The garden, still vivid as an image inside Ifan's closed eyes, was emanating emotions of happiness that Sandor, as a child, had experienced back then. Such a deep share, such an elven gesture. Ifan moaned loudly, and bit Sandor's neck stronger than he noticed it. The memory of a child, of Sandor as a child, cleaning the floor of the corridor popped out out of nowhere. The more he licked Sandor's collarbone, the more intense that memory was turning, jumping from the garden to the child and vice versa. It looked like the memory wanted to be focussed on the garden, but that child kept coming. 

Too submerged in the experience, Ifan went down on the body he was exploring. He was ecstatic. The deepest level he could aspire to be with someone was this: a transparent exchange of memories, feeling them as first-hand. So he insisted with his tongue. There was something else calling him in a certain part of that body, something that he needed to hunt it down. He move Sandor's hands over his head, and licked the border of his armpit to the extension of his arm, stopping where the burning began.  _ There _ . It was there.

The arms over Sandor's head as well as that dead weight on him were interfering with his mind tremendously; he could not control the tension anymore, and a dark memory raised in the middle of the spell. 

The garden became grey, the leaves withered and the flowers turned brittle, and that gentle woman disappeared beyond a door. The door engulfed the whole memory, as a long dark corridor appeared. The child from before, crying, was desperately trying to clean the red stains on the floor, but instead of removing them, the piece of cloth in his hands kept making them bigger. Whitish drops fell from the ceiling, sometimes getting mixed with the red ones on the floor, sometimes dripping over the kid who winced in repulsion. But the child, sobbing, kept scrubbing the floor. His despair was evidently growing at the sight of those stains that he could not wash off. 

Ifan walked towards the boy. Despite the memory, he still could feel the pleasure of his own body licking Sandor’s while a repulsive sentiment grew in his soul. Such a contrast of different emotions. When he was a couple of steps away from the kid, a heartbreaking scream coming from one of the many doors in the corridor made him stop short. More cries and screams joined that initial one, each of them from a different door. He saw the child who had stopped cleaning, and all the strains were climbing up his little body. He was now crying with stuttered sobs, his breath faltering. And then, out of the blue, Ifan could perceive an immense amount of Source born from the child; intense green cracks on his skin glowed in white. He was going to explode. He was going to blast.

With a violent shove, Sandor pushed Ifan away and sat on the bed, trembling. His shoulders were hunched while he hugged his legs, breathing in and out, as the cracking lines of Source on his skin receded. The small little wisps of Source dissolved into thin air. 

Confused at first, expelled from the memory in such a rush, Ifan knelt on the bed and rubbed his face. His mind was still not clear when he saw Sandor in that state, and putting aside his dizziness, he approached him to hug him. 

"I'm sorry, Ifan. I needed to stop it."

Ifan softly caressed Sandor’s back and kissed his temple. "I'm the one who is sorry, Sandy. It was my fault. I was so … so into that memory. I didn't realise what I was doing to you. You okay?"

"Yes. It’s...My bad...." Sandor said with teary eyes. He was not going to cry but still yet the moment had had an impact on him. "I wanted to go on... but.." His smile flickered.

"Don't need to do this, Sandy. We'll find something we can enjoy." He kissed his head. “Thank you, anyway. Never in my life got this experience. I thank you so much.” Ifan whispered against Sandor's temples. Despite the tension and the shock, Sandor smiled satisfied, proud. He had surpassed any elf, finally. 

"It's nothing, Ifan. I wish I could give you more. But... I have many memories of... bad things. I simply… can’t avoid them in my mind. It is always me having no control at all… about everything.”

Ifan rubbed Sandor's arms, turning his touch gentler when Sandor jerked at the sensitive burnt skin on them. 

“That’s… That’s what’s in your mind always that we… We share a bed?” Ifan said, trying to find the most tactful words. He had always known that Sandor had terrible memories, but this experience had just given him a deep awareness of it. 

“Some of them.” Sandor nodded. 

Ifan made the embrace tighter and remained silent for a moment. What could he do that would not infuse terrible images from the past?, he wondered, and then, the idea came to his mind. 

Ifan drew back a little, gave a peck on Sandor’s lips, and smiled with that glint in his eyes that suggested mischievousness. “You always say you never had control. Have you ever controlled an intimate situation? Fully, I mean.”

Sandor frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” Ifan let his body fall on the mattress, keeping the embrace around Sandor to pull him with him. He spread his legs and hooked them around Sandor’s waist, a deep contact that exposed his own groin condition without shame for Sandor to perceive. 

Interested, Sandor cleared his throat, lifting his body just a bit to see Ifan’s face. The man was looking at him with a smug smile, displaying a submissive sensuality that he tended to hide deep under his wolfy demeanour. Maybe Ifan had no such mastery of his own Source to share his memories with him, but his soul could be naked in many other ways.

“But… but were you not expecting me… to… you know, to be under you?” Sandor’s voice trembled. 

Ifan chuckled in a rumbling way, “I told you, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

Like most things that people wrongly assumed about Ifan, he had never been fond of control in bed. Quite on the contrary, Ifan loved to be taken by his partner, completely docile and compliant to their desires. Maybe it was a natural consequence of his useless tongue; unable to access that intimacy that an elven lick could offer, he experienced a similar depth when his partner simply sank themselves in his flesh.

Nueleth had always enjoyed that side of him, and he never regretted that role with her. However, that Lone Wolf that had crossed his life a long time ago had mistreated that side of Ifan, twisting it and perverting it in ways Ifan never imagined could be possible. That elf had imprinted deep scars in his soul; indirectly teaching him that his emotions made him an easy target for several kinds of abuse. Although Ifan never shut down himself to risks, that man had certainly made him learn to be emotionally wary by the hard way.

But now... what was stopping Ifan to simply do it? To simply share himself with Sandor, to accept whatever he wanted to give him, in the way he needed to? There was no safest person in the world to be taken by than Sandor. He was sure of it.

Giving Sandor time to think about the proposal, Ifan stretched over their bed and reached his bedside table. He put a short piece of rosewood in a metallic plate, burnt its extreme, and extinguished the fire soon afterwards. The remaining ember ignited in the wood, slowly consuming it while exuding a relaxing warm scent. It had been one of the many ideas that Ifan had incorporated into their room in the last years. With this trick, the usual odours of sex and sweat were masked, helping Sandor to relax while keeping away the bad memories that their intimacy may trigger .

Ifan accommodated himself on the bed and hugged Sandors' waist with his legs once more. He played with that grey hair lock that was growing on Sandor’s fringe over the months.

“So? What do you think? Complete control. If you are still in the mood, of course.”

Stroke by the sensuality of that man, Sandor had to sigh loudly in order to release the extreme tension before answering. “No. I’ve never done things in that way… uh...”

“You fancy?” He said while applying some pressure in his legs, seeing that silly smile in Sandor’s face. 

“I-I... I think... I think I do.” Sandor kissed him, shy all of the sudden.

The idea seemed to have set alight the wizard because his intensity escalated in seconds. He kneaded Ifan's body with his, maintaining a friction between their hips that snatched some moans and long hums in between smiles.

He sneaked part of his arms under Ifan's shoulders, and grabbed them to have a better grip to push their hips. The bed-pants were starting to feel uncomfortable with so much friction. Or at least Ifan's. Because despite the ragged breath, the intense deep kisses, the bites; Ifan could not totally leave himself loose when he kept feeling that Sandor was far from being hard. 

But the doubt fell to the background of his mind when Sandor kissed him, adding a discharge in his lips that magnified the elven mark's effect. Drown in pleasure and need, Ifan grabbed Sandor's back and pressed him against him. In a second of awareness he released him, afraid that such violent grab could have felt like weight. Thankfully, Sandor was too focused on something else to notice and did not seem to mind it. Ifan smiled in the middle of that repetitive friction of their bodies. 

He scratched Sandor's nape and whispered in his ear. “The pants.”

Sandor lifted his body to kneel between Ifan’s spread legs. He tried to remove his own pants, but Ifan, playful, kept making the process more complicated by locking his legs around Sandor’s hips. Sandor slapped his legs a couple of times, getting tangled with his own pants, until he darted at Ifan a commanding face that made Ifan shiver delightfully. 

“Do you want me to take the pants off or not?”

Ifan laughed and, obedient, he kept his legs away from Sandor’s body so he could finally be naked. Without shame, smiling with bare pointy fangs, Ifan observed Sandor's nakedness, enjoying the view until his sight fell down enough to confirm what he had been feeling against his own hips. Sandor was not aroused in the slightest.

Ifan’s legs rested on the mattress, this time barely surrounding Sandor’s waist. He sighed deep and long to lower his lust, hesitant to continue. However, Sandor was unaware of his change of mood, too focused on his pant’s cord, struggling to unfasten it. His concentrated face made Ifan smile. 

The wizard was frowning with his tongue sticking out a little bit, his attention full on that knot. Once he was done with it, Sandor put Ifan’s legs together and placed them both on his shoulders so that he could slide the pants off and throw them aside the bed. Once again, Ifan spread his legs to embrace Sandor's waist, but this time he just kept the intimate contact light, without movement or squeeze. Enjoying the contact of their skin, he caressed Sandor’s chest and ribs until the man leant on him and kissed him tenderly. The atmosphere had become lighter.

“Something wrong?” Sandor asked.

Ifan lifted a bit on the mattress, placing part of his body weight on his elbows, and encircling Sandor’s thighs, he pulled him with a tug. Then, his sight jumped from Sandor’s eyes to his groin and vice versa. Sandor's evasive eyes confirmed that the wizard was completely aware of the situation. They remained silent for a moment. 

“I know. Just trust me.” Sandor said.

“I'm a bit confused... Do you really… want this whole situation?”

Sandor winced. “I do. My body and my desires have always... been... a bit... dissociated. Most of the time. Please, just trust me. Can we talk about this later? I don't want to ruin the mood.”

He did not want to explain at that moment how many times his body had betrayed him in his life. How many times pleasure had been forced upon it, and despite his mind screaming in rejection, his body had responded with ecstasy when he could not yet understand the difference between desire and reaction. And all that mess of repulsion and pleasure had always been associated with a name engraved in his mind. Ferx. A name filled with dirty, repulsive, rejected pleasure. 

It was only natural to expect his body to betray him again, to remain dull and dead even though he wanted a moment of delight. Intimacy was never going to be easy for him, especially after placing that aspect of his life under a rug, ignored for decades, expecting some day those memories could disappear from his mind. Now, it was time to remove all that accumulated dirt, and teach his body to deal with the wounds left on it. But until he could do that, he wanted to offer all what he could to Ifan, to take his breath away and drown him in raw intense sensations that only the flesh can give. For that, he only needed  _ magic _ . 

Ifan fell again on the mattress and sighed. “Sure. But… remember what you promised me… don’t force-.” Ifan was going to say something else, but the movement of Sandor's hip, making the friction more sensual than before, made him lose his train of thought. He grabbed Sandor's knees and moaned as his desire was starting to recover its previous intensity. He heard Sandor giggle. Damn mischievous man. 

“At least let me finish my wo-”

Ifan could not finish his words again. Something thin, cold, and slippery had just entered into his rear. A bit frustrated — recognising it as a mere finger — Ifan drew back his head, pressing it against the pillow. He was determined to enjoy it anyway, since it was obvious that it was going to be the only resource that could work considering Sandor's lack of arousal. However, Sandor's finger did not waste more time than what was needed to internally cast a water lubricant, being removed without any hint of sensuality.

Carefully, Sandor took several pillows. He gently patted at the side of Ifan's hip to order him to lift his body a little bit, so he could place the pillows under his lower back. Sandor arranged them in detail to obtain a good position that could provide pleasure to Ifan but at the same time it could be easy for them to kiss. Their height difference was a frustrating issue in bed. 

“What are you doing with all the pillows?. I think we can-”

And Ifan could not finish his words.  _ Again _ . Instead, a squeak of surprise cut short his breathing for a second as he felt something thick, warm, and hard slid into him, slowly. He closed his eyes and hissed, as the forgotten sensation took him aback. It had been almost a decade since the last time he had done this, and the feeling seemed almost anew. Maybe it was. After all, bodies and tastes change with the passage of time. He gasped, tensing all his body at once, digging his fingers in the blankets. 

Sandor stopped immediately, caressing Ifan's chest and stomach with warming spells on his palms to relax his tension. “Did I hurt you?” Sandor's tone was full of worry. 

Ifan lifted a bit, resting his weight on his elbows, and with narrowed eyes looked at Sandor’s hips, trying to understand what the hell was happening there. He could see small cracks of Source on Sandor's belly and thighs.  _ Ah, that was the trick _ . 

“No, no. It was more of a surprise. It's been... a while since... well... just give me a moment.”

He let his head fall against the pillow and breathed in and out. Sandor remained knelt between his legs, in the middle of the process, immobile, avoiding to produce any discomfort. He only kept rubbing Ifan's skin with warming spells on his palms, as far as his arms reached. 

Finally, Ifan arched his back, spread his legs a little bit, and told Sandor to resume the penetration. With extreme care and a languorous pace, Sandor slid in wonderfully, without a hint of pain. Ifan hummed when the penetration was complete.

“Sandy.” He whispered, looking at the man in front of him, who was holding his waist as if it were made of crystal. “Let me kiss you.”

Slowly, Sandor released Ifan's waist letting the whole weight rests on the pillows. He leant over him, extremely careful with each movement, as if he were someone who knows too well where it hurt the most. However, his movement got stuck midway, unable to get closer to Ifan’s face. He tried to push a bit, making the penetration even deeper. Ifan moaned loudly.

“I can't.” Sandor winced, he spoke in a whisper, “We need more pillows. You are too tall.”

Both laughed. “Damn, I have to do some work. This wasn’t what we agreed, Sandy.” Ifan said playfully, and lifted from the mattress enough to reach Sandor's lips. 

“I know, I should have known better.” Sandor whispered in a smile. 

Ifan chuckled and kissed him, feeling those intense tickles in his stomach and the penetration going deeper with Sandor’s own weight. When they separated, Sandor pressed his forehead against Ifan's, and placed more pillows under Ifan's shoulders, to let him stay in that so kissable position. 

“Move, Sandy.”

Spreading his knees a bit more under Ifan’s thick thighs, Sandor started with an agonising slow back and forth that was a delight. The slippery liquid cast before made the movement completely free of friction. For a long while Sandor kept the movement languorous, combining the natural pleasure of the penetration with warm fingers playing on Ifan’s sensitive nipples. It was a beautiful image to see. 

Out of the blue, Ifan gasped and grabbed the blankets violently, holding an intense wave of raw Source that resurfaced in the middle of the relaxing pleasure. This was the mark of a Sourcerer, the reason why, years ago, so many of them had been captured and sent to Fort Joy by frightened lovers. The pleasure of the moment, especially when it was tangled with deep emotions, built so much tension that it ended up reflected on the Sourcerer's skin, displaying its typical small beautiful green cracks. Sandor moaned at that intimate image, the absolute manifestation of a Sourcerer, impossible to hide, intense and ecstatic. Ifan opened his eyes slightly, a flash of Source appearing sometimes in them, and raised his arms towards Sandor, placing them on his back. They kissed as the thrusts became more and more faster. 

“Sandy.”

Sandor grabbed Ifan's sex with his hand and cast small discharges of electricity while increased his movement. This was what Ifan was asking for. Sandor had made love to him with his hands many times, and they always felt wonderfully on his body. It was true that they used to be softer. The burnings had changed their texture, but they were still incredibly soft in comparison with the hard skin of an elf. Certainly, being with Sandor had taught Ifan to appreciate human skin, knowing that no other hands could provide him the most pleasurable caresses. The little bits of magic in the contact added not only a wonderful effect but also quite a personal one. Sandor’s unique touch. 

He remembered the first time Sandor had done it that way. He was unable to think for a while after the pleasure had shocked him. Sandor had kept talking and talking during that moment. He had thought it was a nervous reaction to the situation. But no. Any new addition to Sandor’s repertoire of bed-tricks tested on his body ended up with a long technical explanation of the principles used to provide him high levels of pleasure. Who in his right mind would be explaining all that in the same moment his partner was moaning and writhing in delight?. Ifan chuckled at the memory. Certainly, Sandor would. 

“Sandy, Sandy”

Ifan's fingers nailed on Sandor's back, who despite the little pain did not stop. There was a lot of personal satisfaction in feeling the echoes of his own doings on Ifan's body translated on his own back. He bit Ifan's neck as a response, and Ifan cried out, locking his legs around his hips tighter, while the movement, back and forth, made the bed hit against the wall repeatedly. 

“Sandy, I can't… More, Sandy. I love you.”

And after loud moans and inarticulate sounds trapped in the middle of the throat, Ifan's whole body tensed violently, his cracks of Source shone intensely as he came in Sandor's hand, and from a moment to another, a total relaxation made him spread on the mattress, motionless. However, he was reluctant to unlock his legs. He could feel Sandor was still hard. Gently, pushing Ifan’s legs away from his hips, Sandor pulled his own sex out whether Ifan liked it or not, and rested by Ifan’s side, enjoying proudly the effect he had on the man. 

When his breath was recovered, and Ifan returned from the floating state he was letting himself roam, he sat on the bed and kissed Sandor, sneaking a hand between his legs to give him the pleasure he had been holding so far. But instead of finding the hardness that had just felt inside him, he touched a sloppy flaccid sex. He frowned a bit, curious. Sandor had not come. How could it be possible?

Understanding the unspoken question on his face, Sandor took Ifan's hand away from his own groin and sat straight between Ifan's legs. He held his stained fist upside over the mattress, far apart from him, while he covered his waist with the blankets using his clean hand. 

"I'm fine. I don't need...." Frowning, looking for the correct words, Sandor’s first reaction to attempt an explanation was to kiss him, expecting the gesture could capture the emotions that his body did not want to acknowledge. Then, he whispered in his ear. “I can't. I never could.... Please let it go. And help me with this,” he looked aside, at his hand, “I need to clean this...” 

_ Ah, true _ . Immediately, Ifan helped Sandor to clean his mess with a shirt that had not fallen on the ground. He hated to see the disturbing effect of oily, sticky hands on Sandor. While he cleaned Sandor's hand carefully, using even a bit of water he took from the bedside table, he still wondered about  _ how _ the whole situation had happened. He could not put that question aside.

“I... I truly need to ask you this, Sandy. I need to know,” He said, lowering Sandor’s hand, now clean, and threw the shirt on the ground. Sandor looked at him, all his attention on him, “But.. how... did you have just...” He silently pointed out Sandor’s covered groin.

Sandor looked aside. “Uh... I’m... I'm not sure you would like to know. It was me, if that's your concern.”

Ifan opened wide his eyes, “Well...  _ sure  _ it was you.” Then he frowned squinting at him, “Should I worry for some sudden swap with someone else or something like that?”

Sandor chuckled, his lips in a fine line that was fighting to hold a smile. “No.”

“Now, that’s a relief. So... tell me. How… You know.  _ How _ .”

“You know me.” Sandor smiled, but Ifan knew that behind that smile there was some mischievous thing going on. “I fix things with magic. So...”

“Source alone doesn't harden anything.” 

“No...” Sandor’s eyes averted Ifan’s.

“And you are not good at geomancy...”

“Indeed...” Sandor met Ifan's eyes a couple of times and a smile hard to contain curved his lips, so he whispered, “But I can deal with simple polymorph spells.”

Ifan took some seconds to remember the most common polymorph spells he knew. Sandor was not a master of that magic school, so a complex spell of a school that he did not control completely could not be sustained for so long in an intimate situation like this. It had to be one of the simplest ones… but which one?. Bull horns?. No. Chameleon cloak?. No way, it had no reason… Tentacle…  _ Oh, for the Fallen. Tentacles! _

Ifan winced, his voice a bit high-pitched. “Ugh, no, no.... Sandoooor! For the Fallen Goners, don't tell me... you… you... ” He closed tight his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose, just to raise his eyes again and see Sandor cast the spell on his index finger turning it into a hard mini tentacle with a slippery soft surface.

“It worked. It's a nice  _ hard _ , isn't it?”

Ifan took a pillow and pressed it against his own face, letting his body fall on the mattress. Sandor laughed strongly, removing that pillow. Ifan was fiercely red, disgusted with the mental image but too pleased with how it felt. It was a contrast hard to accept. This was why being with wizards was never safe.  _ Never. _ After the moment of shame passed by, Sandor's laugh became contagious, and he joined his laughter too. 

He grabbed Sandor's wrist and pulled him firmly against his chest, forcing him to fall onto him, embracing him, “This happens to me for marrying a damn scholar.”

“It could have been worse.” Sandor lifted a bit, just enough to be face-to-face, resting part of his weight along Ifan's body, “I had to choose between that or dry ice.”

Ifan shrank as a wave of goosebumps hit his body. “You are a danger to me.”

Sandor laughed again, a vivid sound resounding in his chest. With his index finger back to normal, he poked Ifan’s beard. “Consider this as a retribution for the never-ending joke of Voidwoken ichor. Every time you mention  _ ichor _ , I would say  _ tentacle. _ ”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

Both chuckled and cuddled for a long while. They enjoyed the warm calm that lovers find in each other's arms after the storm of pleasure. The room had a strong scent of rosewood, barely mixed with the scent of their own sweat and the herbal one proper of Ifan’s body. The silence, the natural rhythm of their breathing, the good cheer, the idle caresses on their bare skin, their sweat getting dry slowly, allowed the tiredness to finally reach them. They kissed long and slowly for the last time before going to sleep.

“Despite the disgusting truth about tentacle spells and potential ice and all that... This was really good, Sandy. May your husband ask for another session tomorrow night?” Ifan said, satisfaction giving to his tone a joyful inflexion. 

Sandor shrank a little in his embrace and hid his face in Ifan's neck. “I leave tomorrow evening.”

His poor choice of words made an obvious effect. Ifan's heartbeat rose quickly, as his tension in the embrace hardened all his muscles. “Leave?”

“I need to go to Driftwood. Do you remember?” 

“Ah. But, we have just arrived.” The tension in Ifan’s body decreased a bit, but his face slowly turned sad. Maybe it was not the best moment to say this. Disrupting the intense feeling of bonding after sex certainly was not wise.

“Tarquin and Arhu told me about the incidents during our absence. We need to find solutions if we don’t want rumours to produce even tighter inner tensions. And to be honest, we need to find this scholar. We are stuck in our research. Besides, I want to take advantage of these relative peaceful times. I won't be able to travel when massive attacks will leave hundreds of wounded to heal.”

Releasing the tension with a deep sigh, Ifan loosened the embrace. His face, more neutral, still displayed a hint of hurt. “And you weren't going to tell me this until the very last moment?

“I didn't want you to worry. At least not while you were...” Sandor raised an eyebrow, smug smile on his lips, a finger loosely drawing figures on Ifan’s shoulder. “...moaning under me.”

Ifan chuckled, blushing.  _ Damn Sandor _ . “And when are you going to come back?”

“Hard to say. I need to find this person. I only have rumours to track her down. And then, I will need some work in convincing her to come here, to work in the academy.”

Ifan took the blankets and covered both with them, “Well, I must push Engineer Sanders to keep on working on his flying machines. We need some fast travelling means.” He nuzzled in Sandor's hair sliding a leg among Sandor’s. “And who is this person you want to find? “

“She is called Infirma. A dwarf. She is an... exceptional alchemist.” 

“Alchemist? What for?”

“As I told you, we need another perspective to solve our stuck research. We need another angle to find solutions. She may help me with the mirror and the silent monks.”

Ifan drew back. “Ah.  _ The mirror _ .” Ifan's tone pretended to be neutral, but he could not avoid a dark inflexion in it. That damned device was going to bring disgrace, he had always had a hunch about it. He sighed deep and long, and cuddled in Sandor’s arms, enjoying his warmth and bread-like scent for what was left of the night. He was going to miss them in the following weeks.

* * *

An acrid smell filled the air. The sound of slow steps echoed along a dark corridor. It was impossible to see what was at the end of it. Only darkness could be seen. The looming echo kept repeating itself. 

_ Clomp, clomp, clomp. _

One step after the other. He knew it was his own bare feet. But they sounded heavier. Well, they used to be lighter.

A step after the other, his heartbeat sped up with the looming feeling of danger, and shadows hidden at the end of the corridor moved towards him. The tension was strangling his throat and hardly any air could reach his lungs. 

_ Clomp, clomp, clomp. _

He knew this corridor quite well. He had cleaned it thousands of times. It had also been the personal hell of his childhood. His recurrent nightmare as an adult. The long dark corridor of many rooms, each of them containing pleasure for some; sadness, pain, and despair for others. He stopped in front of one of the many doors, the one without a number on it. Instead, the symbol of a star decorated it. The symbol of a  _ special service. _ He saw the key hanging from the handle of the door tied with a thin golden thread. 

A twitch contracted his stomach and retched. He needed to vomit, so he leant on a wall and looked down, preparing his body for the uncomfortable feeling ahead when the sudden movement of shadows at the end of the corridor prevented him from doing so. Another retch. He spat out, shivering, and saw that well-known whitish liquid. He winced, shaking his head. He could not waste time with that. He simply covered his mouth and closed his eyes tight, forcing his nauseas to stay still. 

_ Why had he allowed that to happen to him? Why did he not run away when he could? _

The penetrating smell of body odour and sweat reached his nostrils without mercy. Acrid strong smell that filled his eyes with tears. 

_ But he had been a child. A mere child. _

He looked at the door at which he had been standing. The symbol of the star moved as well as the door itself. He frowned, confused. Suddenly, the wall, the doors, the floor; everything moved, as if he were standing still while the world sped up under his feet. 

The shadows, however, remained at the same distance for a while. In the dark cloud at the end of the corridor, many pairs of eyes started to appear and stared at him. Old eyes with cataracts, yellow eyes, full of red veins. Predatory eyes. Sometimes, glowing tongues appeared too, moving as if they were licking their own lips, tasting a feast soon to devour. 

He trembled as a panicked animal. Fear and revulsion spread in every fibre of his body. The world was rushing around him, but only the shadows and he were standing, frost in time and place, measuring each other. The panic was set free when the first shadow moved. One after the other, the darkness shifted, approaching him. 

He yelled at them, stepping back, ordering them to stop;  _ begging  _ them to stop. But he realised there was nobody that could hear him. The world was rushing at its own pace. He was alone in that dark, endless corridor. Filled with despair, the only escape was to run away, while everything kept moving towards the other side. No matter how much effort he would put to maintain the distance, the shadows simply kept approaching him. 

They finally reached him; a strong grip on his ankles and wrists, and a disgusting wetness of sweat, saliva, and dirt climbed along with them over his body. He screamed, shook his arms violently, spun and moved like a feral animal desperate to escape from their executioners. But no matter what he would do, everything was a vain attempt to ask for help. Nobody would hear him. Never nobody heard him. 

He woke up suddenly, panting, trembling, crying. He was bathed in a cold sweat. A pair of strong, scarred arms embraced him and that sudden well-known warmth anchored him in this reality. He buried his face in that bare chest, herbal scent replacing the still lingering stench from the dream. A gentle pat, a soft rubbing on his neck with a warm open palm, a peck on his head. His breath returned to normal, and when he recovered his senses completely, he opened his eyes and met two sleepy emerald ones, worried.

“It was a bad dream. Better now?”

Sandor nodded and buried his face in that neck once more. 

Ifan was already accustomed to Sandor's nightmares and his sudden jumps in the middle of the night. There was not much to do but comfort him long enough to return his agitated mind state to his normal self. This was part of Sandor, of his deepest scars.

That morning, after breakfast, Ifan returned ruefully to his room in the barracks through the usual corridor, not without kissing Sandor for a long while. That morning kiss had to be their goodbyes, again, while the echoes of the last night were still too fresh in his body and mind. 

  
  


* * *

* * *

NOTES

(*)  All the names of these places can be found in [Map Of Rivellon and Series Notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570). 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

Driftwood received Sandor the same way it had said goodbyes, without major events or important changes; just a boring town-like life passing by. Maybe he could notice the predominant presence of Guardians now, but in general it had not been a true change of faces. Most of the Magisters back then ended up joining the Guardian forces in Driftwood under the command of the well-known _ ex _thug Papa Thrash. 

Expecting a lot of resistance from former Magisters, this apparently easy acceptance of the new Order had tensed the Commander Thrash. All the people from whom he had always been hiding from during all his life, ended up under his command, receiving his order and calling him..._ Sir _. Suddenly, he had to be responsible for his own actions and decisions to keep those soldiers happy and content, since the new Order had a certain degree of individual independence that allowed any superior to be questioned. And he was the hell of a question for most of them. Maybe exactly for that rule most Magisters joined the Guardians without second thoughts, feeling safe not to repeat the mistakes of the past and with enough power to stop any zealous leader. 

To everyone’s surprise, Thrash had been doing a wonderful job, finding an interesting balance between the most lawful soldiers with the most chaotic rascals. After all, the man used to be the keeper of the shadow world, maintaining tensions well balanced seemed to be his art. He was also a connecting key between different worlds: a dwarf that inspired others dwarves to work alongside humans now that they had lost their empire, and at the same time, a link between those who lived in the daylight with those who hid in the shadows. Certainly, he had been a neutral choice for a complex town like Driftwood. To be part of the Guardian Order, which always preferred to have leaders that could be considered strategic assets to keep people’s tensions calm, he was more than suitable. This balance seemed to even affect the Voidwoken. Despite the lack of heavy safety measures, peace in Driftwood was rarely interrupted by occasional Voidwoken attacks.

Despite the years since the last time Sandor visited this town, Driftwood had not only kept immutable, it had not grown either. Maybe it was because Driftwood’s dark side had been uncovered and embraced by its lawful villagers under Thrash's commands. The Black Bull, Driftwood's most famous tavern, had been extended to the underground fusing with the one placed in there. 

By chance, Sandor discovered that the old owner of the main tavern — Lovrik (*) — had suffered a deadly accident just after he and his companions left Driftwood during their chase after Dallis. A strange death that nobody doubted to pin on the old Lohar (*), who had disappeared since then. Only some rumours claimed that both deaths had been the result of a ghost wolf's rage, but nobody gave much credit to it. It was, after all, a mere rumour.

When Sandor entered the Guardian's main office — the former Magister post placed at the highest level of the town— the commander Thrash welcomed him warmly. Tired of the endless boring paperwork he was working on, the dwarf jumped off from his seat and shook Sandor's hand as if they were old friends. Clearly, to be the right hand of the famous Ben-Mezd made some relationships go smoother; he did not need to bother in diplomacy or extra friendliness.

“Didn't know you were coming. I would have done a better reception for the Mestre of Arx, If I knew.” Thrash said, inviting Sandor to take a seat.

Sandor smiled. “No need. I'm here for a brief time, looking for scholar-related information. I'm in search of a dwarf.”

“Ah, no one better for that than me. Spit it out, my friend.”

“According to a... common friend, she is an alchemist. Infirma...”

Thrash moved his hands in front of him, stopping his words. He did not need to listen longer. He did not want to. “Aye, aye. Infirma Fermed (*).” Thrash frowned, keeping silent for a moment, “She was the best student of Zanisima (*). Someone we all want to forget.” The dwarf looked up, his frown raised. He observed Sandor with a slight suspicion, as if he were measuring his reaction. 

Averting his eyes for a second, Sandor arranged his long fringe behind his ear. “Exactly the person I'm looking for.”

Thrash shook his head, a resigned sigh came from his mouth. “Nothing good comes from her, Lad. Stay away from her.”

“She has the fame of a great scholar.”

Thrash wrinkled his nose, and the corner of his mouth turned down. “She used to work here, in a little house close to the Market. Last time I met her in her laboratory, here in Driftwood, she was hiding a tank of _ Deathfog _ . I forbade the damned thing many years ago, but she didn't listen to rules. She never does. As a good disciple of Zanisima. So... I expelled her from the town before having troubles. Or a whole cloud of _ Deathfog _all over Driftwood.”

“Do you know where she went?”

Thrash frowned. “Didn’t hear me at all, Lad?” He calmly walked to his desk and took his seat once again. “Nothing good comes from her.”

“I just need to ask her some things that are vital for our research. It would help us against the Voidwoken.”

The dwarf’s frown deepened while staring at Sandor. He had always been good at perceiving people. He knew Sandor was something else than a wolf in a lamb disguise, but it was never clear enough to decipher what he truly was. But the lad was Ifan’s right hand, Thrash remembered, and sighed in resignation. 

“I've heard she headed to the Bloodmoon Isle after I kicked her out. I hope the good ol' Swann didn’t give her shelter. Or if he did, he could guide her to be more useful, doing some healing instead of... those weird things she does. But if anyone knows where she is, is he.”

Sandor nodded, and after chatting for a while about Driftwood's resources, he left to rest in the Black Bull. A long day toward the cursed Isle awaited him the next day. 

* * *

It had been almost two months since the Mestre left Arx, and so far, the Voidwoken activity had been none. These peaceful times were the perfect excuse for Sanguinia Tell to spread more and more ill-rumours about wizards. For so long the Magisters had confused people with the wrong idea that Sourcerers were the ones attracting Voidwoken, that this recycled twisted concept applied this time to wizards did not need much effort to be accepted as truth. 

Ifan tried to counter-attack the rumours assuring that Arx had still a wizard in the Academy and the lack of Voidwoken activity could not be caused by Sandor’s absence, but not all people listened to him. Instead, they claimed that no Voidwoken had been attracted simply because Arhu was not prone to use his powers very often, unlike Sandor. They even blamed The Mestre’s innate instability that forced him to exhaust his Source by healing people at the clinic or, in the worst case, to simply burn it purposelessly. All that Source was to the Voidwoken, like honey is to bears; an intense bright beacon in a dull ocean of Void, according to those claims.

Despite those annoying rumours, life in Arx had been peaceful. And that fact always drew a wide smile on Ifan's lips. Maybe his life had turned incredibly predictable, with less adventures that he would like to have, but there was still a lot of satisfaction in his daily work. From the hard training of promising young people, to a long, boring paperwork analysis of tactical measures, to weekly balances and missives from the Guardians' Keep. All that energy was invested in things that gave him purpose now. A real, tangible, less bloody purpose whose consequences he could enjoy everyday at the sight of happy families living in the city, at the proud soldiers he was training, at the warm scent of home that he always found at night after crossing that long corridor. 

A soft colour raised on his cheeks at the unbelievable fact that, now, he was a married man. Again. He looked at his hand, rough and full of scars, displaying all his usual intricate rings. There was one, the newest, that was placed in _ that _particular finger. He let out a sigh and shivered, still remembering that night. It had been two months ago. The intensity of the elven mark only accentuated the yearning for that man during those lonely days. He missed Sandor, deeply. With soul and flesh. He sighed again. For now, he had to be content with only his thoughts, while Sandor was still out there, doing who-knows-what with an alchemist.

“What a silly smile you have there.”

Ifan chuckled at those words and continued with his dinner, while Lysanthir took a seat in front of him. 

During those two months, Ifan had been seen everyday in the Barrack’s kitchen at night. His presence there had caused a turmoil. Most people in the barracks had believed all those years that he always went to bed with an empty belly. That assumption which had started as a rumour, soon it ended up in a trend. 

It was common for the most enthusiastic soldiers to go to bed without eating their last meal of the day, claiming to follow the commander's path. When Ifan had discovered such stupidity, he had to convince them during their training to do otherwise. It was foolish not to feed a body that had worked a whole day to the point of exhaustion. 

Certainly, his now frequent presence in the dining room was a disaster for the recruits' trend. During their breaks or their beds at night, many trainees kept wondering in a mist of doubts: did or not the Commander used to go to bed without eating? The most brave students dared ask him, but sadly, they always got a different answer in the middle of a joke. The commander was extremely good at changing the topic of the conversation at his whim. Nobody would snatch a word from him that he did not want to give.

“This food reminds me of something I've eaten in my childhood.” Sharp as usual, Ifan crafted the most convincing lie in the spur of the moment. 

“Uh?” Lysanthir raised an eyebrow and looked at his own dish: rice and grilled meat. The least elaborated meal you can get and not precisely an elven one. “Do elves eat this in the forest? they changed their style, then.”

Ifan chuckled in his typical way, a forced smile that was a mere courtesy, a gesture that meant to stop the conversation right there. Lysanthir kept his eyes on him, observing him like predators do, measuring his reactions, looking for meaning in the most subtle contraction of his facial muscles. Annoyed with that scholarly inspection, Ifan raised his eyebrows as if it were a challenge, and Lysanthir's lips curved in a wicked smile, focussing once again on his meal. 

“What truly happened? You are not welcome anymore where you used to dinner time ago?” Lysanthir said, gathering the last remnants of rice on his dish with the fork. “Please, I don't buy that bullshit you said to the recruits. Having a daily meal hidden in your clothes? In the bottom of your bed?”

Ifan cleaned his lips with the back of his hand and remained silent. He put aside his empty dish, and a shadow of a smile appeared on his face as a gesture of defiance. This was the end to their meal and of their conversation. 

Both left the table and walked along the rooms' corridor until they reached Ifan's, the first one of the section. Without saying a word, Ifan rolled up his sleeve and, elbowing Lysanthir's ribs, he showed him several leaves of a medicinal herb hidden in his clothes. “See? I have many things on me all the time. I'm always ready for everything.”

Lysanthir rolled his eyes. “Cut that charade. I know you always went to your room but you are never there.”

Ifan blinked. “Are you stalking me?”

“Let's say, I'm worried about our dear commander's health. Going to bed without eating... tsk tsk tsk.” Lysanthir let the silence turn into his prologue, then he added, “Most nights I've come here with a tray of food. I knocked on the door without having an answer. Empty room. Every night.”

Ifan maintained the silent challenge of their look, the tension of an uncovered truth raising. In the end, Ifan laughed. “You are a hell of a stalker.”

“What would we do if something bad happens to our commander?”

“You will go on. That’s simple.”

_ Bastard. _ Lysanthir wrinkled his nose for a fraction of a second. Ifan was never going to give him straight answers; he was, after all, the master of the derail. Full of smiles and soft tone to decorate his hollow words. No matter the garb he would wear, a wolf would remain the same under it. 

Playful, the elf leant on the frame door, arms crossed, and squinted at Ifan, "Nocturnal trysts. I suppose it makes sense. How could a handsome man like you be alone after Nueleth? It has been so long, for a human." Lysanthir said. 

“Quite out of the blue comment, uh?”

Lysanthir shrugged. There it was again. Always skipping questions he did not want to answer. “You are always avoiding the topic. I must insist. Perseverance is my main virtue.”

Ifan laughed opening the door. "Perseverance is to put it lightly. More like Stubbornness, truth be told."

"On my favour, I have to say that you are terrible at rejecting people. Instead of humiliating them and making them feel horrible for insisting in your affection, you just simply... smile. Don’t you think that’s a bit confusing?"

"Ah, that's what it takes to get rid of your propositions?"

Lysanthir tilted his head, his long hair moving along. For a moment, he tenderly observed Ifan. If it were not for the clear distance of that moment, he would caress that scruffy beard. "More or less. But I would not count on it for sure." 

Both chuckled. 

Suddenly, a dark aura surrounded Lysanthir as the memories of his past came to him. Losing his playful attitude, he turned grim and sad before speaking, "But, to be honest. I prefer to deal with rejection. Makes things clearer for an elven heart. Considering how long humans live... I prefer to choose an unrequited love as long as you live content than mourning the rest of my life after bonding to you. The pain wouldn't last forever, at least."

Ifan barked a soft laugh, preparing to make a joke along the lines that maybe he was going to be the one mourning a silly elf from being killed by Voidwoken. But the seriousness in Lysanthir's profile stopped him. He remembered Nueleth's words, which had been similar to his, time ago. Elves knew it was a tragedy to fall for any other race. Their long lives and good memory made them mourn forever. The pain was always deeper and longer than the joy found in the relationship. It was a life-lasting sentence to yearning. 

“Look, Lysanthir-”

Suddenly, a violent shake and a strong erupting sound echoed all along Arx. The walls trembled and the air vibrated as a low pitched yet intense sound was repeated twice. Every Guardians, veteran or recruit, jumped from their seats and beds and ran to the armoury, wearing immediately their garb and weapons. It had been three bombs, coming from the bridge that leads to the Academy. 

When Ifan and Lysanthir reached the point, they found DeSelby already controlling the situation with her soldiers. Several fanatics of the Gods had attacked the academy again, but Arhu, fast and unique as he was, summoned an extensive shield around it. 

Seven mages, now restrained and pinned down on the ground with anti-Source collars and handcuffs, were the main responsible of the attack. Beside them, three silent monks were still by their side, standing as empty husks, unable to respond to any command. Ifan rubbed his face, he always preferred Voidwoken. 

“You killed our parents! you killed Lucian! Damn you monster.” A man on the ground yelled at Arhu.

“Ah, this again. They are a pain in the ass.” Ifan said as Arhu, approaching him, observed the bridge half destroyed.

From the mass of curious people at the other side of the bridge, an old woman walked across them. The echo of her cane was enough for the Guardians that were shielding the academy with their bodies, opened up and let her pass.

“What is this all about?” She said, her cane hitting on the ground with every step, until she stopped before the tied mages.

Her voice was immediately recognised by Ifan. He shrank his shoulders a little bit and then forced a broad confident smile. “Ah, Lady Tell. Do not worry. We have everything under control.”

“You _ don't _. Just look around. Half Arx is in ruins. Again!”

“That's a bit exaggerated.”

“A bit, you say?” She looked past Ifan and squinted at Arhu. “Ah, of course. Where there are disasters, there is always a wizard.”

“I did nothing! For once.” Arhu said in his silky voice. “They came to destroy my academy! In fact, if I wouldn't have defended it, all this would have been destroyed.”

“Maybe it would be for the better. It was a mistake to let this nest of debauchery grow in this city.” She rested all her weight on her cane, both hands on its top, never averting Arhu’s look. “You are clearly behind something else. It's not enough with our Source.”

Ifan closed his eyes and sighed loudly. Lady Tell was fond of exaggerating events, but this was looking like a performance. Something else was coming, his guts twitched as a bad omen. “Lady Tell, please, we need to deal with these criminals. We have no time for inner rivalry.” 

All the curious people, barely contained by the living wall made of Guardians, observed the situation as if it were a show. 

“Mark my words. All of you.” She said looking at the rest of the people observing the scene, “When there are problems, there is always a wizard around.” Her eyes laid on Arhu again, “I don't believe a word from you.” 

“My husband disappeared after this wizard returned from his _ supposed _ kidnapping.” Another woman walked toward them crossing the damaged bridge, people spreading around her to let her pass. It was Paulina Kemm (*). “Nobody saw him since then.”

Ifan sighed and pressed the bridge of his nose. Because having Sanguinia Tell bickering about the situation was not enough. 

This had been happening for a while. Some Guardians had informed him of having seen Paulina Kemm in Sanguinia's mansions several times during the last month. This apparent blooming friendship between the two ladies took no time in showing its true nature. Lady Kemm began to supervise part of the Guardians' reports that were meant to Sanguinia, giving her unconditional support to anything that Sanguinia had to say in a discussion. If Ifan or any other high rank dared complain about her meddling, soon after, strange rumours would destroy their reputation. It had happened with one of them, who had to ask permission to leave Arx due to the hatred she gained in a couple of days. Whatever Paulina Kemm did, it had deep, impressive results. And the most important families of the city, big influencers, were involved in the process. It was too much pressure and political power to endure for any single Guardian.

That was the reason why they held back as much as possible. The last thing they needed was ill rumours about their own Order spreading along the city, turning them into a questionable force and increasing tension between the Guardians and the citizens. This kind of fighting was always what Ifan feared the most. A kind of combat whose enemy could not be easily seen and even less attacked. 

With Kemm's backup, Lady Tell — a rich woman that lacked social charm — finally had access to the highest and most powerful classes of Arx. Money and influence, the worst combination ever in the wrong hands.

With this new subtle alliance, the ridiculous idea of the wizard illness gathered more strength than before. It was fair to assume that Paulina had helped her in the process. The concept turned viral when she planted the seed of doubt about the true intentions of Arhu towards the city since he had been related, somehow, to the disappearance of her dear husband Linder Kemm. As if Arhu would have done some atrocity over him that needed to be covered. As if Kemm's betrayal against Arx would have been forgotten by everyone. Or even worse, that such betrayal had been, in fact, a wizard trick. Paulina had an undeniable power to convince people of the most ridiculous ideas.

Rumours were problematic. Ifan feared them. Back then, when he was still a soldier under Lucian's orders, ill rumours about the non-humans soldiers had torn apart the old Divine Order, removing invaluable people from their ranks. Now, he was a witness of this exact same process once again. And the worst of it all was that he was never sure how to fight them back. Gossip was not a mere enemy that could be reduced with a dagger sunk in a throat. It was a terrifying entity, that like water, seemed to be harmless, but the wider it became, the more dangerous it turned out to be. And the longer they were in everyone’s mouth, the more convinced people seemed to be about its veracity.

Rumours against wizards was the last thing that Ifan wanted to deal with in these times. They were a group hard to defend. It was well known that most people in Rivellon used to consider them as a different race. Their vast knowledge, the strange culture that all of them seemed to share, and the use of unrecognisable languages in combination with their eccentricities made of them a group that belonged to their own category. The more Ifan knew about Sandor, about his perspectives of life, about the unfathomable -- and most of the time dangerous -- knowledge he was submerged in, he could understand more and more about this strange perception that people had about wizards. Sure, he was not going to deny it; they were a unique group in Rivellon, but they were far from any ill-intention myth spread by Lady Tell. Besides, Voidwoken meant enough trouble to add massive suspicions to such a small group that could be of great help against the Void creatures in this war. 

“Pardon? _ I _ was kidnapped by _ your _husband. He ran away when I was rescued.” Arhu said, arms folded, glaring at Paulina.

“You never explicitly named who saved you.” She insisted. The massive audience of Arx citizens remained silent, observing the dramatic spectacle in front of their eyes.

“People that would be the main target of these fanatics if I say a word. So, it doesn't matter. They were proud paladins that left this place time ago, full of harmful memories crafted by your husband. Let them live in peace.”

Ifan frowned. That had been the official version that Arhu had picked to explain his kidnapping and the following Linder Kemm's disappearance, whose undead nature was never revealed to Arx. To spread the news that an Undead was among the rest of the people, and that they could have access to the highest ranks in any city, would only cause panic. Besides, part of those who would never believe this truth would pin the blame on those who were dedicated to the city's security. For these reasons no Godwoken minded to correct that version. Everything was easier this way as long as people would believe that traumatized paladins that helped Arhu and reduced Linder, ended up leaving the Order later, disappearing in anonymity. Ifan hated that lie, because in his opinion, it was impossible to believe. Paladins were ego maniacs, showing off their talents and anecdotes without stop. To know that a bunch of them would run away and turn low profile after saving the great wizard Arhu and uncovering the betrayal of Kemm was _ truly _impossible to believe. Anyone who met a single paladin knew it. But he was not who made those kinds of decisions. 

“And you think that, because of such a thing, she doesn't need explanations about her husband's whereabouts?” Sanguinia Tell added, hitting her cane against the ground to emphasise her words and the dramatic performance. “Who could support a man that explains mysteries with more mysteries?” Sanguinia looked once again at the wizard, “Who can assure me that you are not disappearing people to consume their Source?”

“Ah, here we go again.” Arhu tossed his hands in the air.

“Tell me why you still have Source while mine has almost gone?”

Everyone looked surprised at her, eyes focusing on her old clean hands as an expectant silence filled the air. Ifan frowned, looking at the reaction in the rest of the people. That was a bad sign. Most of them started testing the amount of Source they could cast in their own palms. Some summoned a normal, intense green flame, but many only could conjure a transparent small light from their fingertips, as if the Source within them had been diluted. A few could not cast Source at all, no matter how much focus they would use. The phenomenon of fading Source was now impossible to hide under the carpet of ‘_ mere exceptionalities _ ’. It was a _ fact _, affecting many. 

Ifan closed his hands into tight fists; he needed Sandor now. He needed his fancy words that would probably buy some time to hold the generalised panic, or could even calm down the masses giving them hope in a future cure, or at least confuse them enough with long tedious explanations to make them stop questioning about it. 

Silent, Ifan looked at Arhu, whose annoyed face expressed what Sandor had told him time ago: Source was disappearing in some individuals, turning them into the ‘oddity’ of this new world. While in the past such oddity had always been the Sourcerers themselves, now it was the Sourceless people. And as it was before, there was nothing that could explain the cause of this difference between creatures. The scholars had no way to explain the process, _ yet _. 

“Research is being done, so far.” Arhu answered, his jaw tense. 

Trained by Sanguinia Tell, Paulina Kemm took advantage of the sudden silence and spoke loudly, “What if it's tue that wizards are draining our Source to maintain theirs? It won’t be the first time in History that wizards prey on common folks.”

Repeat the concept over, and over, and over, and it will catch fire eventually. And like a wildfire, it will spread, ravenously, along the forest, burning everyone who repeated it. By the time someone checks the origin of the fire, many things would have been destroyed, and only by the end of the fire, when only ashes remain, everyone will regret it. Mother Melati had told him that once, trying to teach him the few little things she knew about humans. Ifan remembered her words and tensed his back. He had to stop this charade, somehow. _ Now _. 

So Ifan stepped ahead catching the masses’ attention and extended his arms in the air, “Stop this nonsense. Nobody is draining anyone's Source. My Source is fine,” he clapped his hands and thousands of crossbows made of Source floated over the mass of people. A demonstration that was also meant to be a display of strength to calm them down or passively threat them. “See? I'm alright. And most of my daily life is being around wizards and mages and the like.” He added, clearing his throat, as a deep twitch within him made him understand that something, small yet present, had been changed in his own Source level. 

“What if it's an illness? A Source-illness?” Paulina said, feeding the masses with more doubts. 

“Illness that, strangely, never affects wizards.” Sanguinia Tell added.

Ifan rolled his eyes. If it was not wizards draining people’s Source, it was an illness that everyone but wizards could suffer. Why couldn’t Lady Tell be like any standard loan shark, too focused on money to care about the rest of the world? Her meddlings were a pain in the neck.

“Enough!” Ifan said, tired of that game. Bringing back all his Lone Wolf demeanour, he straightened his posture, snarled, and turned his eyes into cold piercing daggers threatening the mass, “We have work to do here, we have to deal with these criminals and measure the property loss and the potential danger of this half-crumbled bridge. We have no time for this. Empty speculation does no good. Now, please, let the Guardians do their job or we’ll take the proper actions to do so. Do not interfere with our duty.”

Slowly, under a worried murmur, the mass of people dissipated and left the place after such threatening command. Only Lady Tell and Paulina Kemm remained for a bit longer, observing how the Guardians checked the criminals' handcuffs and brought them to the barracks.

Arhu took the three silent monks standing aside and guided them into the academy. Inside, the dark image of Tarquin, who had remained hidden in the building all that time to avoid more suspicions, smiled broadly at the sight of those monks. It was clear that the man had already ideas to test on those poor bastards.

“This is why I hate leaving Arx. Only two months and I've missed a lot of action.” 

As a lightning strike, _ that _ voice hit Ifan and made him stop short. He looked over his own shoulder with a smile impossible to hide in his beard. Two hooded figures were standing close to the damaged bridge, reluctant to walk away following the mass. The smallest one was unrecognizable for Ifan, but the taller one, with _ those _ narrow -- a little bit hunched -- shoulders and _ that _ affected movement of his hands, was obvious to him. Ifan swallowed hard, holding back his emotions. He wanted to get closer to that man, hug him tightly, and lift him from the ground, covering him with thousands of kisses. Instead, he sighed, looking for a relief of all that emotion, and chuckled, stepping closer to him, arms askance. They looked at each other, maybe too tenderly for what it should be, but he could not restrain _ that much _. 

Smiling back, the man removed his hood, displaying his usually sad brown eyes, that in this time were struggling to keep the emotions low as well. 

“What a timing you have.” Ifan finally said. 

“We rushed into the city when I saw the explosions several kilometres away. I thought it was another Voidwoken attack.” 

“I wish it could have been. It would have been easier to deal with it.” Ifan-- who was observing Sandor too warmly in the open -- changed his attitude immediately when the short mysterious figure by Sandor’s side removed her hood and stepped in, offering her hand to him as a greeting. Ifan gave her a firm handshake. 

“She is Infirma Fermed, one of the great alchemists of all Rivellon. She is going to work in the Academy with me from now on.” Sandor explained when he saw that wary look in Ifan’s eyes. But the introduction did not seem enough for the former Lone Wolf. He kept observing her, measuring her. It was clear that Ifan felt something wrong around the alchemist. 

However, in order to be polite, Ifan nodded as a gesture of respect. “So, you plan to stay in the city for a while.” 

“Indeed.” Infirma said with her lively voice.

“Well, I would suggest you to go to the barracks tomorrow. We need your registration as a scholar of the academy. And please,” He continued looking straight into Sandor's eyes, “Be careful about what you all are doing in the academy. As you have just seen, things are starting to get a bit tense with scholars.”

“We are not children, Commander.” Sandor smiled, his gesture far from being genuine. It was his Balurik smile. “Besides, the problem is with the _ wizards _. Not the scholars.” He corrected.

Ifan looked down for an instant, worry transparent in his face, “Please, understand. We need to make the city safe.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Of course, Commander.” He nodded coldly and looked at Infirma. “Allow me to show you the academy and where you are going to work.”

That way of ignoring him hurt Ifan a little bit. For a moment, he thought Sandor was angry; with that cold, bitter anger proper of a Balurik layered scholar. However, when he passed by his side, Sandor sneaked a piece of paper in Ifan's belt. 

After the scholars disappeared into the academy, and the last measures to start fixing the damaged bridge were taken, Ifan returned to the barracks reading the paper in the lonely streets of Arx. He smiled getting fiercely red. 

_ \----------------------------------------------------------------------- _

_ I missed you, Ifan. See you at home. _ _   
_ _ Brought you some drudanae beer. Effie's special one. _ _   
_ _ I’ll be waiting for you with your ‘ _ favourite’ _ spell active. _

_ \------------------------------------------------------------------------ _

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Infirma Fermed ** [Headcanon, original character]: Dwarven alchemist, specialised in _ Deathfog _. Disciple of Zanisima.

**Kemm, Paulina **[[Divinity: Original Sin II](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Lady+Paulina+Kemm)]: Lord Linder Kemm's wife. She comes from the high spheres of the nobility and a political influencer.

**Lohar **[[Divinity: Original Sin II]](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3048):Dwarf chief of the thugs in Driftwood, always located in the Underground tavern.

**Lovrik ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Love+has+a+Price) ]: Owner of the tavern Black Bull. He is the NPC that will give you the quest [ Love Has a Price ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Love+has+a+Price).

**Zanisima** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3138) ]: She is a dwarven scientist who worked on a _ Deathfog _ device. One of those devices was given to Ifan by Alexandar under the lie that it was a portal to save the elves when in fact it was a _ Deathfog _bomb.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

The next day, after Infirma settled in a small house nearby, Sandor walked her through the academy. 

Showing the dark mirror and its dead replica, Sandor assigned her their reactivation as her main task. She inspected the mirror, touching its surface, and instead of keeping in silence, as many scholars did, wondering about that dark artefact, she smiled at him and suggested more than five different types of potions to activate it. Unable to hold back his excitement, Sandor clapped softly and quickly, as his eyes glinted with those good news. She seemed to be that kind of scholar more eager in finding new challenges than showing off her pride in her abilities.

Her second assignment — and also a work shared with Tarquin — was related to the far room at the bottom of Sandor’s studio. That room was the one he had prepared some time ago to host the silent monks that would appear in the city. By now, only three — an elf and two humans — were there. Since Sandor could not recognize them, he assumed those were the ones that, on the previous day, had attacked the academy beside the rest of the renegade fanatics. He knew there should be more monks in that room, but they had disappeared.

"We don't know either." Tarquin said when Sandor inquired about the matter. "I only saw some people leaving the academy with them, some days before your return."

Sandor did a mental note, he had to investigate what had happened to them. So far, the ones in that room were enough to assign Infirma her second task: to work on something that could repair their Source and, therefore, their personality. After a detailed explanation of how these poor things had been transformed in those creatures, Infirma did not waste time in offering her opinions.

She was already managing several options in her mind to restore the remnants of Source that kept in a purged body. If those failed, she always could find a way to dissolve the worm inside the monk' heads while providing a healing treatment to recover the damaged brain. Chances of dying were high in this procedure, especially if the worm was too deep into the host’s head, but it was a last-resort-option to take into account.

As her last task, she was going to work under Tarquin’s orders on the exploration of more hypotheses that could explain why people were losing their Source. Certainly, Infirma was not going to be bored in this place. 

Seeing such eager and intelligent fellow, Tarquin could not help but thank Sandor for all the efforts he was making to gather the most talented scholars in order to face the challenges of this new Divine-less world. And despite the oddity that it could be to see Tarquin in such a mood, Sandor did not doubt his intentions. Tarquin truly felt surrounded by kindred souls. 

Leaving the two scholars to know each other, Sandor returned to the clinic. He walked with a nostalgic smile on his face; the city had grown in him, slowly. Only by walking its stone-made streets he realised how much he had missed it. However, something had changed. The streets did not receive him in the same warm way they used to; some oddities raised along his path.

The main one was the few people that greeted him. That was unusual considering that, as a healer, most persons in the city had been treated by him at some point. Walking the streets was an endless interaction with them, thanking him about a concoction, asking him about a minor pain in their back, or telling him that they were going to the clinic in the afternoon. People used to appreciate his work. Now, some would walk away from him, averting their eyes, while others, who could not have more options than passing by close, shared looks of mistrust. Even some parents scowled their children when they kept staring at Sandor for too long, saying something about their Source being drained by him. The sound of murmurs was left behind his wake. 

Close to the clinic, he saw a Dwarven silent monk following one of Paulina Kemm's servants. Absent minded, with a soft glowing collar around his neck, the creature carried several bags of groceries while walking behind the servant. It seemed that they were using Tarquin's box-command, a collar that allowed the box's owner to make the silent monk in question react. Sandor frowned. That had been the first silent monk he had hosted in the academy, almost a year ago.  _ What in blue blazes? _

At the entrance of the clinic, he spotted another of the recently sheltered silent monk waiting. She was a human monk that had appeared before leaving Arx with Ifan to clean the forest. Surprised by her behaviour, Sandor reached her, patting gently her cheeks, wondering if the monk had been reacting positively to the several treatments he had developed. However, her eyes were lost and no matter the stimuli, she would not react.

“Mestre, you came. Welcome back.” A young dwarf girl, his most advanced student, had approached him.

“Yes. Thank you. I would like to know why we have her here, and why a servant of Lady Kemm was accompanied by a silent monk.”

“I know. This is a recent order from Lady Tell.” 

Sandor rolled his eyes. Of course everything out of place had to be her doing. 

“She forced us all, a month ago, to get rid of the monks or give them jobs. We accepted the second option because you were not here, Mestre. We assumed you would prefer the monks in the city instead of being lost in the forest.”

Sandor took away his hand on the silent monk's face and looked at his student. “I see. You did right. What work is she doing?” Sandor tilted his head in the direction of the monk. 

“Helping to carry patients, delivering medicines to the ones we suggested their recovery in their houses, buying us supplies at the market for brewing potions. That kind of thing.”

“An errant girl, I see. And the other silent monks?”

“Most of them were taken as servants. They will probably do similar work like her.” 

Sandor wrinkled his nose, observing in detail the monk. “There is so much room for abuse in this situation.”

“I couldn't do anything, Mestre. Lady Tell lent money to my family, and we still didn't give it back. I can't… I can't oppose her, Mestre. The consequences for my family...”

Sandor scratched softly his chin with a finger, understanding the situation. “It's alright. You did well. I should speak with Sanguinia Tell. I'll see if I can revert this.”

The student nodded but she kept her sceptical expression on her face. It was known that nobody could change Sanguinia's decisions.  _ Never _ . After the fall of the paladin Kemm, the main authority figure in the city as a Governor had been left empty. Repulsed to politics by nature, Ifan never claimed that position for himself. He preferred to keep focused on his Guardian duties and in the safety of the people of the city. So this empty place turned into a great opportunity for Sanguinia. Not that she was powerless before — in fact, she always had plenty of power in any time, considering all the money she had and her broad network connections along Rivellon — but she never got it in such an explicit visible way.

Now, she had hoarded power to the point to think of herself as the main political figure of Arx. Of course Paulina Kemm had been key in helping her to earn that position. It was obvious that both had arranged a common deal to support each other from a political point of view. When Sanguinia Tell's decisions were too questioned, Paulina was always around, ready to use interesting and sometimes confusing arguments to raise Sanguinia Tell's image, as it had happened with the last attack in the city. Their technique was robust. Something bigger had to be cooked around those two.

Sandor rang the bell in Kemm's mansion, and the usual stylish and verbose butler opened the main door. Sandor straightened his back, he wanted to perform a noble-like approach instead of the usual scholar one. Maybe this way he could be on better terms with Paulina and earn some kind of support on his side before facing Sanguinia Tell. 

"Good morning Sir, it's been a while since you graced us all with your presence in this mansion.” The butler said.

“Yes, yes. Nice to see you healthy and well.” Sandor said with a fake noble gesture. For a moment he had forgotten to use fancy words and affectation, too focused on his own thoughts. What a way to start his plan. “I'm looking for your mistress.”

“I'm afraid that would be impossible today, Sir.” Those words made Sandor squint slightly. “She has an important meeting.”

“Do you know when or where I can find her?”

“She is in the barracks.”

Now Sandor's eyebrows shot up. That was unexpected. “In... The barracks? Why?”

“I'm afraid I don't know anything else on that matter, Sir.” The butler bowed ashamed, another of the many overacted gestures that most nobles had. Behind the butler, Sandor spotted a silent monk standing at a corner of the big entrance, looking like one of those statues that decorated the whole mansion. Without wasting time, he left the butler not without sharing a pompous farewell made of excessive words and gestures. 

Sandor quickly walked to the barracks expecting to find Paulina angered with Ifan. After all, she always had seen him as a usurper of her beloved husband's position. She never missed the opportunity to emphasise the lack of merits of a  _ vagabond _ man like him. And that strange choice of words made Sandor suspect that, maybe, Paulina knew about Ifan's past, keeping it a secret just because Ifan was capable of maintaining the enemies and dangers far away from Arx. There was no point in alarming the city. Nothing was safer, and at the same time stressing, than having an ex Lone Wolf as a law-bringer. However, Sandor had no evidence to prove this idea. But if it was the case...How long would it take for her to spit the secret out to Sanguinia? Because if Ifan was living in Arx peacefully despite Kemm's wife, was basically thanks to having Sanguinia Tell's favour.

When Sandor was getting close to the barracks he heard from afar the usual clash of swords and shields. The recruits were practising in the field. Lysanthir was the first person he saw when crossing the main gate. A gesture of surprise followed by his natural wicked smirk was all what the elf shared with him in the distance, immediately focusing again on his recruits. From a corner of the field, the paladin DeSelby was observing the training, until she noticed Sandor's presence. 

She walked towards him. “Mestre. Is today a council day?” She frowned. 

“No. I'm here for other matters.”

Sandor shared his morning narration, as DeSelby shook her head in resignation. She had the answers to Sandor's questions. That morning, Paulina, accompanied by Lady Tell, had come to the barracks to speak with the commander. Ifan had excused himself claiming to have a busy day, but the interaction with both women ended up in some subtle threats that nobody could completely understand. However, it was clear that they had scared Ifan. Forced by the situation, he guided the women to the main office and they locked in to discuss matters beyond DeSelby’s guess.

“Things have been starting to feel more uncomfortable, isn't it?” Sandor said observing how another recruit was troubled by a flickering Source coming from his hand. Lysanthir tried to make it more potent, helping him by infusing some of his own Source in him, but it flickered anyway. It was not an issue of training. 

“These people think that because we react much better with the new defence system we are completely safe. They also think that most Guardians are expendable. So now, we have to do whatever demand they fancy if we don't want to be kicked out.”

“Demands? Did you hear something?”

DeSelby looked down for a moment, frowning. “Overheard, more like. But I think they want to remove Arhu from the city.”

“Why?” Sandor's eyebrows shot up. 

“The illness. You know. They twisted that Magister old argument: now they say that, instead Sourcerers calling Voidwoken, it's wizards who are draining everyone's Source to keep their own. Paladins never believed in those arguments before, we are not going to believe in these now. But people… people are another thing. And the idea is getting stronger in most Arx citizens.”

Sandor sighed and watched another recruit. She was casting Source in a chaotic way while Lysanthir was correcting her. After a moment, from the main building, Ifan appeared followed by the other women. They walked past DeSelby and gave Sandor a belittling glance. Ifan ignored him too; his eyes were full of rage and he did not want to share that undeserving hardness with him.

“I hope you consider our proposition.” Lady Tell said as she stopped. Then, she looked at Sandor. “There are always problems where there is a wizard.”

Sandor was going to ignore her, but in that moment he spotted two silent monks behind her. Against his own good, he spoke loudly. “What are these silent monks doing here? They were in the academy.” His voice came out graver than his usual tone. Even Ifan was surprised by his commanding intonation. 

“They had a lot of time to recover. They were not healed, so we’ve decided to give them some work to do.” 

Sandor's frown deepened, “We are still researching to find a proper treatment.”

"That's your expertise, Mr. Das Balurik. If you don't know how to heal them, don't complain. I don't want useless citizens living in Arx."

"They are patients!”

“This is a matter of not wasting anyone's potential. We are not going to feed an unresponsive creature just because we feel pity. We live in hard times; something you seem to forget continuously.”

Sandor's jaw became tense, “As if I was not aware of it.” Then, he threw his hands up in the air “Besides, feed? I can't believe that poor excuse. Silent monks don't eat."

This time it was Sanguinia who shot her eyebrows up. “Still, they need to work.”

“This is slavery.”

“Please, Das Balurik, don't be so over-dramatic."

Impetuous, Sandor walked towards her, violent and direct as rare times he could be seen. Ifan observed him, wary, getting a bit worried. Sandor's instability was always present every time he was carried away.

"Over-dramatic, you say?" His eyes flickered in a soft green glow of Source. He pointed out the silent monk. "These people were tortured to become this, they are unable to speak up, and have been the target of many abuses. But they can't denounce."

"And you think I gave them work with heartless people?”

“Yes. I see two of those people here.” 

Sanguinia Tell blinked, pressing her hand on her own chest, surprised by the violent answer. DeSelby moved her lips in a mute whistle. 

“They can't speak to give an opinion.” Sandor added. 

“And are you saying they are safe with you? What if it is  _ you _ who abuse them.”

“That's outrageous! I’m a healer!What a stupid idea is that!?”

Everyone in the barracks remained silent for a moment. Nobody had ever been so confrontational with that woman.

“Ha. Insults. The arguments of those who have none.” She said looking at Ifan. “Do you see why wizards can't be trusted? He has been performing experiments on these monks without their own consent. You saw the mistreat they have been subject to. This filthy man won't be able to explain their marks, so now, afraid for that truth being finally uncovered, comes here barking orders, trying to hide his sins. Kind of fitting attitude to his  _ origin _ , if you ask me.”

“What!?” Sandor snarled, hit by the poison of those words. His anger was now crystal clear. Veins full of Source appeared and disappeared around his temples and neck. 

Ifan stepped forward placing a hand on Sandor's shoulder. They shared a short look that calmed the wizard down. The least that both needed was a blast of Source. 

Then, Ifan continued, “Lady Tell, I told you. I trust in him. He has fought by my side for years, and the most dangerous thing he can do with his scholarly abilities is killing you of boredom with his endless explanations.” 

Some people in the barrack chuckled, and even DeSelby — still witnessing the whole situation — could not avoid a smile on her face as she remembered the many interventions of Sandor during the council meetings. Boring long explanations and details about how magic works when nobody cared about it.

That intervention gave Sandor some room to pull himself together and forced the glowing in his skin to recede to the point of finally disappearing.

“In any case, I’ll repeat myself: I won't allow useless citizens. I made myself clear. They should work. Whether you like it or not, Das Balurik.”

Sanguinia Tell and Paulina Kemm left the barracks. After some commanding claps, Ifan ordered everyone to return to their activities. Approaching Sandor and placing a hand on his shoulder -- that casual contact that he displayed with any comrade -- Ifan spoke with a low voice, "Everything okay?"

“No. Nothing is okay. They are using these poor people to be their slaves. Of course things are not okay. These people have to be in my clinic, monitoring their response, analysing how to remove those worms without compromising their lives,” Sandor glared at Ifan, and whispered, “Why did you not tell me about this before?”

Ifan shot his eyebrows up and removed his hand from Sandor's shoulder. “First, you were not here these last weeks. Second, Sanguinia has just told me the details now. She did all this behind my back. I'm focused on security matters, not on… everything else. Besides… last night, I was not going to ruin our… when we… you know.”

Ifan looked aside, controlling the blush on his cheeks. Last night had been their reunion after a long time. The drudanae beer, the slow lovemaking, the long talk afterwards; everything was still lingering in his mind. As an unspoken deal, both had agreed not to talk about problems in that moment and only enjoy their warmth and caresses. Sandor could not complain about Ifan’s attitude of putting everything aside just for one night. He was quite aware of how valuable it was that kind of private moments together, forgetting the chaos of the world and only relaxing in each other’s arms. 

Knowing that it was not Ifan’s fault, Sandor continued, “And you approved her actions?”

Ifan sighed and crossed his arms, looking at the recruits training for a while. “You know what I think of them. I don’t believe they can be healed. If you don't give them a merciful death, then…”

“You can't say that. You saw me heal Natalie (*) in Paradise Downs.”

“That poor girl had been recently converted. Beside, Sanguinia showed me some disturbing marks on those silent monks. In their napes. Is that better than giving them a job?” Looking for those sad brown eyes, Ifan turned his face toward him but Sandor averted his sight. “I’m no one to judge… but… Tell me how I can defend that before her. It’s big material for her arguments against wizards.”

Sandor kept looking at the ground, holding a hand on the other, playing with his tensed fingers. Those marks. Yes, he knew about them. They were a consequence of many treatments he had been researching. Over and over. But after all those failures, he was close to a promising treatment, though painful. Or at least, he wanted to think so.

“She claimed  _ that  _ was torture.” Ifan added.

Sandor met Ifan's eyes and whispered with an anxious tone,“It's not the same. I'm trying to heal them.”

“I know, Sandor. I don’t doubt your intentions. But that doesn't change the fact that this research of yours is painful and close to torture. And as you said, they can't speak. What do you know if they prefer to be tortured that way, even though it’s a healing treatment, instead of being killed? To be put out of their misery? Sometimes one wants everything to stop.”

“No. Healing is most of the time a slow, painful process. If you know there is a slight chance for healing, you go into it, no matter what.”

“That’s your opinion. What if that chance is too thin? What if you don’t want to suffer years to just give it a shot that will fail anyway? That kind of decision matters too, Sandor.”

“Killing is never the way to heal.” He said frowning, sometimes a bit of rage slipped into his pupils.

“It’s not healing, it’s mercy.” Ifan sighed. “In any case, by now, I can't do anything against it. I'm sorry. Sanguinia is pushing things further.”

“Why? How?”

Ifan looked around, he had to be sure that no one could eavesdrop his words. Then, he whispered, “You were right. Paulina said that she had been investigating me all these years after I left the Order. She found out that I was a Lone Wolf for decades.”

Sandor blinked. “Wait… that means...Sanguinia Tell never knew about your fame?”

“No. She always assumed I worked as a mercenary or a bodyguard for merchants. It was the natural choice after all those years in the Order. I never minded correcting her.”

“So, Sanguinia.... Does she know it now?”

Ifan bit his lower lip and nodded. “And she is not happy with me. At all. Still, thanks to all these years we have been fighting Voidwoken, and to all the people who like my command, she told me she was not going to destroy me. Huh.  _ Lucky me. _ But I have to do what she says.” He sighed deeply. 

“Ugh.” Sandor wrinkled his nose. 

“Imagine if more secrets are revealed....” He looked intensely at Sandor, and then, at the bit of chain around his neck peering around his robe collar, carefully hidden under it. “Of course I don't like to be a puppet. I'll put some resistance and will try to convince her against her whims, but sometimes that may not work. It didn't with the silent monks. And now she wants me to jail Arhu.” He chuckled. “As if I could do it. Or any person in this damn city could.”

The comment did not make Sandor chuckle, not even draw a smile. Instead, his eyes widened violently. “Jail Arhu? Why?” Despite his demeanour, Sandor kept his voice low.

“Because nobody will remove from her head that stupid idea that wizards have something to do with the fading Source. Or any other kind of illness.” 

Sandor looked down. “Have there been more cases lately?”

Straightening his back, in akimbo pose, Ifan observed the training recruits. “Yes. There. More and more people feel their Source weaker over time. Some good soldiers were removed from the groups focused on Voidwoken. It's useless to fight those monsters if you are not a Sourcerer. It will add more corpses to the battlefields.” Ifan changed his posture to a more intimate one, worried, and looked at him, whispering even lower, “And... Sandy, my Source has been strange lately.”

The silence remained for a while. Sandor joined Ifan in their observation of the training field. Several times Lysanthir glimpsed at them, and immediately returned his focus on the recruits, teaching them to combat with normal magic. Then, Sandor spoke, “Are you going to jail Arhu?”

“I've told you, I can't even if I wanted to. The man is incredibly powerful.”

“And you told her that?”

“No. Of course not. I simply told her that I'll keep an eye on him.” He shrugged. “It must suffice for a while.”

Another silence. “Just Arhu?” 

Ifan looked at him, as Sandor returned his look. Their silence again was an answer itself. The wizard sighed, feeling his spirit heavier. 

“I'm sorry.” Ifan added. He stepped to him, with the intention to hug him, but he stopped midway. Pursing his lips in a thin line, he restrained his affection; nothing good would come for both of them if Sangunia knew about their true relationship. 

“Don't be. Not your fault.” Sandor rubbed his own palms, “So many problems have been developed during my absence.”

“Not everything is a problem. You came back.” This time Ifan looked at him with that goofy gesture, full of tenderness and love, that forced Sandor to tilt his head for a second, to make him aware of his silliness. Caught in the act, Ifan lowered his face a bit, cleared his throat, and returned to look at him normally. This time Sandor smiled back at him. 

“Well, I should return to the clinic. And I'll tell Arhu about this.”

Ifan nodded, “See you tonight,” and with a neutral pat on Sandor's shoulder, he walked away, entering the building again. 

From afar, Lysanthir smirked at Sandor for the last time.

* * *

As the commander had ordered her, Infirma walked to the barracks the next day evening. It was required that every person in the city could be registered as long as they were living in Arx. A security measure.

She crossed the training field; DeSelby and Lysanthir were at a corner, observing their recruits sparring. Infirma only shared a nod of courtesy with them and headed to the main room where the council usually takes place. The open door allowed her to walk in after knocking on the frame as a gesture of pure respect. With a war owl resting on the back of his chair, Ifan had his hands on his face, elbows leant on the table. He was surrounded by papers and messages that certainly were troubling him. The knock made him raise his face immediately and he crossed his arms on the table. His face displayed dark circles under his eyes. It was a face of a man who had a restless night born from worries instead from pleasures.

Greeting the woman, he stood up and stretched his back. Several hollow sounds cracked along his spine. He yawned. “I'm not made for this,” he said, a rascal smile on his tired face. 

Infirma chuckled, “We can always summon some murderous creature in the academy, if you want some action far away from paperwork.” 

Raising a worried eyebrow, Ifan looked at her for a moment, not laughing at all. A silent threat was held in the air. 

Shooing away with her hands, Infirma added immediately, “Okay, okay. I’ve said nothing.”

They walked down the stairs to reach the detention floor. That was the safest part of the barracks and where the most important documents used to be kept. While Ifan and some Guardians were writing Infirma information in one of their big books, the alchemist kept looking around with squinted eyes. Something was off. She raised a hand to stop any word from Ifan or the other Guardians and sniffed. She frowned. 

“Something wrong?” Ifan asked.

“Do you use _metalex dexinotic_ in your cells?” She walked to the closest cell and smelled its bars. They were mere iron.

“The... The... The what?” Ifan looked at the other Guardian by his side, “Do we use that?” 

The Guardian simply shrugged. Quickly walking between cells, Infirma kept sniffing, she could not identify the Source of the smell.

“Is that thing a problem?” Ifan walked by her side.

“It's a rare alchemist compound, quite unstable. I was surprised to smell it here, because there are not many alchemists that can brew it properly. Using it in cell bars seemed a waste to me, but I don't know how things work here in Arx.” She even smelled the statue that was at the entrance of the detention room, in case the source of the scent could be hidden inside. 

“What is it for?”

“To fix Source to any material.”

Ifan frowned. “Is that possible?”

“Ah, you know nothing about the marvellous things that alchemy can do with Source. There is so much to understand still.” She displayed an eager grin. 

Ifan forced a smile, more like a display of teeth. Scholars always gave him shivers, and not exactly the good ones.

Passing through the corridors, Infirma reached a ruined zone, far away from the main cells, which had some dungeons falling apart. One of them, apparently the one in the best shape, had been blocked with a barricade; bags of sand and a fixed plank prevented them from entering that cell. She sniffed around, recognising the intensity of the _metalex_ there. They needed to have access to this forgotten dungeon. 

Helped by several Guardians, Ifan kicked the planks and moved the bags. Inside, they found a monolith. Infirma approached it and sniffed, nodding. This was certainly the source of that smell. The monolith was like the others they had been spotting in the open for years, small obelisk structures with a floating crystal on its top, glowing with Source. 

“What does this mean?” Ifan looked down, observing the inscription on its base. It was Elvish.  _ Let the fruits of our sacrifice ripen _ . What the hell did that mean? “Call the Mestre, we need someone who has chances of understanding this. Bring Lysanthir too.” Ifan said to another Guardian.

The elf appeared first, frowning at the monolith while inspecting every detail. He was surprised by the elven inscription. As he told Ifan in another opportunity, these strange artefacts had nothing to do with elven traditions. They had not the elven style, nor an elven function. The inscription in Elvish made them extremely suspicious. 

Soon after, Sandor crossed the dungeon entrance, followed by Tarquin, who, curious by the description of the situation explained to the Mestre, had decided not to lose the chance of seeing a rare artefact first-hand. 

Surprised, recognising the monolith on spot, Sandor looked at Ifan. “Has this been here all this time?”

Ifan shrugged. 

The three scholars kept surrounding the monolith, casting Source and testing spells on it, touching it and inspecting every corner, but could not obtain any answer. The what, the how, and the why were mysteries.

“Where does this lead?” Infirma asked Ifan, pointing out the ceiling towards where the monolith top aimed. 

Frowning, Ifan looked at Lysanthir who nodded to his silent question. “The council room.”

“You work there most of the time, right?” Sandor said, looking at Ifan, who agreed with a silent movement of his head. “We need to bring this artefact to the academy for further research.”

More Guardians surrounded the monolith and helped to remove it from its base. They had to dig into the stone floor to separate the artefact from the foundations of the dungeons. Considering that nothing of that process had produced an alteration in the Source of the artefact, Sandor called the engineer of the city to assist the process. If an apparent magical device seemed unresponsive, there were chances that it could be mechanical. No one more suitable to give an opinion on that matter than the Engineer Sanders. In a couple of minutes, the old man appeared at the entrance of the dungeon, bringing with him his kit of tools to analyse the artefact.

The monolith was easily placed on a mobile plank that would allow its transportation to the academy, while Engineer Sanders, Infirma, and Tarquin would remain there for a bit longer, studying the foundations of the dungeon. They saw some wires and tubes going deeper into the earth. 

In the streets, Ifan and Lysanthir kept pushing the heavy monolith made of stone, followed by Sandor. They avoided the main street to prevent having unrequited attention, but that precaution did not work in the end. Halfway to the academy, they met Sanguinia Tell, cane hitting hard on the ground, accompanied by a silent monk that was carrying several heavy bags. 

She stopped in front of them and looked at the artefact. “What's this?”

“I need to study this artefact in the academy.” Sandor said, his voice tinged with a subtle annoyance.

“Where did you find it? I don't remember seeing this from your expedition.” She walked around the object, hitting its side with the cane.

“Please, Lady Tell, don't touch it. We don't know what it does.” 

Her hard eyes pierced Sandor's, “ _ Where _ did you find it?” She insisted. 

Unsure to expose the breach of security that may have happened in the barracks, Sandor looked at Ifan giving him the decision to give or not that information. 

“In the basement of the barracks,” Ifan added, “In a restricted area that only now we could have access. It is probably something from the time of the Magisters.”

She observed both humans, ignoring Lysanthir as she always did. Then, she glanced at Sandor. “Mr. Das Balurik, I'm still waiting for your reports and translations of your previous expedition. I also want a report of this.”

Sandor looked at the silent monk before answering, “I keep working on them, but it's too much for a sole person, so the advance is slow.”

“You should be sure not to bite off more than what you can chew.”

“Perdón?” Sandor smiled, but Ifan knew that it was not a genuine smile. That was the poisonous scholar rising once again to the surface. “There is no need to rush, considering that you barely understand the value of these elements.”

“What?”

“It's obvious by just seeing your understanding of all the work we have been doing with the silent monks. All that effort just to turn them into slaves.”

Ifan sighed. He wanted to avoid unnecessary confrontation with this woman. 

“Don't test my patience, Das Balurik. You should be grateful to me for not throwing you out of the city, after so much shame your past has.”

Sandor bit his tongue, frowning, hurt. 

“If you don't mind, Lady Tell, I wish to put this thing in the academy as soon as possible so I can continue with my duties.” Ifan interrupted, his voice faking a gentle and charming tone. 

“Very well.” Sanguinia nodded at Ifan and returned her sight to Sandor, her gesture once again hardened. “You still need to give me the report of your previous expedition. Don't forget it. Otherwise, I will start thinking that your loyalty lies with your former fellows, and not with us.”

“Perish the thought,” Sandor bowed, “Who would side with them having such charming people on this side, Lady Tell.” He stared at Sanguinia. 

Ifan pressed the bridge of his nose. 

“Don't think of yourself too smart, Das Balurik. I know how to wipe that insolence just by putting some of your dirty rags under the sun.”

She walked past followed by the silent monk. With a sad sigh, and his shoulders hunched a little bit, Sandor looked down, taking a moment. He could feel the tiredness in his soul. 

“Let's go,” Ifan said, patting Sandor's back and resuming their walk. 

* * *

During the following weeks life was normal and busy. Some few Voidwoken attacks were spotted outside the city, but the system developed by Engineer Sanders warned the Guardians several hours before, giving them enough time to prepare the defence. The system had been calibrated with such accuracy that it detected the smallest variation in the Veil hours before Voidwoken could jump into this dimension and attack. To have all that time in their favour to decide what strategies to follow had given them a hundred percentage of efficiency in repealing the creatures with zero casualties on their side. The fading Source in some soldiers had been marvellously compensated with this sophisticated system. 

Sanders was a genius and a tireless engineer, so when he considered the defence system was perfect, he immediately focused on his not-so-new project: the flying machine. The constant travel of Guardians and scholars required such transportation means.

Thanks to the academy and its endless knowledge, and the support given by the Guardians, part of the resources of Arx started to be diverted toward this engineering development. Sanguinia Tell did not offer resistance considering its potential for business travels too.

With resources and permissions, Engineer Sanders fused his old concept of these machines with the blueprint that Sandor had given to him some time ago. This blueprint was made of great complexity that displayed knowledge of a past technology, now extinct, according to what the Mestre had told him. Of course, Sandor would omit the small details that this blueprint was not found time ago in one of his many expeditions as a scholar of Balurik academy but it had been given by one of the leaders of Dragon's Spine which happened to be an Eternal. The important fact was that from now on, Engineer Sanders would focus on the construction of this machine to satisfy the new needs of Rivellon.

During those months, Sandor focused on researching Source. He spent most of his time in the Academy, sunk in old books and Das Vapour's reports, going to the Clinic only when his expertise or his enormous pool of Source were strictly required. He knew he could count on the many brilliant students that had learnt the arts of healing, giving new purpose to their lives. As it was the case of Nyw, the old elf. 

This small shift in his duties allowed him to have more time to understand the nature of Source, the way it was linked to the flesh, and new options to deal with the worms digging into the silent monks' brains. Infirma contributions to this area were huge and promising. However, he did not only focussed on Source. The black mirror would drag his attention more often than not. 

Regardless of the Voidwoken, the academy had reserved the big room that used to be the temple of Rhalic to place a forensic section where several corpses of Voidwoken, unique in their structure, were cut open and exposed to study their anatomy. Thanks to it, they finally understood the nature of these particular Voidwoken. Those creatures whose body did not disappear after death had been recently transformed. They had not been exposed to the Void long enough to turn their tissues into immaterial compounds that would dissolve when the Source sustaining them disappeared.

This new piece of information implied something terrifying: the Voidwoken were not exclusively compounded by corrupted Eternals; their population had a chance to increase by recruiting new living creatures and trapping them into the Void. And that could mean that new powers among the Voidwoken could be expected. 

So far, in all their encounters against the Voidwoken had shown that these creatures had a preference in attacking the mind of the enemy, undermining their confidence and weakening them. But now, with the possibility of a future encounter with a new generation of Vodiwoken who wields unknown characteristics, the fights could become harder than they expected. They could only wish to rise to the occasion. 

The more questions about Source and Voidwoken Sandor had, the more stressed he became. Sometimes he found solace in his lonely studio, touching the ring in the necklace under his clothes while looking at his decorated shackles around his wrists. It had been a while since he started to use them. They had been of great use to keep him balanced, they also provided some extra effects that Ifan enjoyed here and there, which increased his own sense of confidence, and his pool --that damn source of deep uneasiness in his life-- had increased enormously.

Every time his mind wondered about his own powers… the question raised over and over again. What reasons could have motivated his Tutor to try to create a human with an infinite pool of Source? It had to be a more complex explanation than mere academic curiosity. But at this point in his life, Sandor could not say for sure. The way he used to see his Tutor had changed so much in the last months, that now he felt him as a stranger. An old man he never could understand, a man who never showed anything to him but curiosity about his own Source, a man who only saw him as a specimen. He sighed as he caressed the shackle with his fingertips.

“Mestre. My apologies for the interruption.”

A knock in his studio door followed by a soft voice behind his back stopped his deep taciturn reflections. Sandor turned a bit to see a Guardian. It was a young recruit, a recently accepted Guardian that had been a promising soldier for a while until he lost his Source completely. 

“Yes?”

“The commander asks for your presence in the barracks. We were in the middle of a normal meeting… but… something happened?”

Sandor frowned and without further explanation, he took his staff and left the Academy. 

* * *

"Well, shit." Ifan said, closing his eyes and pressing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. 

Repulsed, DeSelby could only look around, averting her eyes from that disgusting figure. It was not only a bad memory from the past returning to the present, it was the transformation of it into a worse version. 

"I've never seen anything like this." Lysanthir was walking around the figure at an inquisitive pace. 

A new silent monk had appeared in Arx just a moment after the Guardian's meeting started.

Raising the silent monk's chin with the tip of a finger, Sandor inspected the subject. Her hair was white, long, and brittle. As if the lack of food had turned it into almost thin straw. As usual, her lips were sealed, but her eyes were strange. They had a white cloud on them that was not of physical nature, but magical one. Something had been cast on them to make the silent monks blind. The skin of the monk displayed a terrible condition, deformed and almost melted. It was as if it were a decaying process that Sandor had only seen in Tarquin's skin when he healed him of his apparently inherited illness. What was clear about this new silent monk was that she was not the result of the usual purge of Source.

“How did you find her?” Sandor said. 

“I met her on my patrol outside the city,” DeSelby answered.

Sandor sighed, "I'll bring her to the academy, to see if anyone can see a solution."

"Solution?" Ifan looked at the creature. "I only see  _ one _ solution. We already have enough problems with Sanguinia to have more by showing off a new type of... monstrosity. Give her a merciful end, for the Fallen."

"Before radical solutions, I'll use every trick in the book to recover her." Sandor insisted. 

"Does anyone want a silent servant soon? Who would bet for this one?" Lysanthir said, ironically smiling at Sandor with his wicked and playful gesture. It was not a secret that the elf shared Ifan's opinion related to silent monks. And especially after the new rules made by Sanguinia Tell, it was hard to say if trying to help them was, actually, a real help in the end. Sandor bit his lower lip while observing the blank expression of the monk. It was a matter of time for her to end up as a new slave. 

Ifan sighed, taking a moment to answer, "Mestre. Whatever you decide, keep it far away from the streets and ... from people. That looks contagious." He pointed out the damaged skin.

Covering the unresponsive monk with a hooded cape and excusing himself, Sandor immediately left the building and brought her to the Academy. 

In the very moment that Arhu spotted the creature, he wrinkled his nose in disgust, while Tarquin, fascinated, could not conceal his enthusiasm in studying her. There was no doubt that such skin condition was the same one he had been suffering periodically. A strange decay of the skin that had been triggered time ago by Dallis The Hammer in an attempt to purge him, despite not being a Sourcerer. 

The first healing procedures were provided by Infirma, who applied some potions on that mistreated skin and bandaged it, expecting a gradual recovery, which, sadly, never happened. 

“Poor creature.” Arhu said, his eyes could not stop observing this new type of silent monk, even though his wince displayed deep disgust in doing so, "This means something more than terrible." 

Sandor rubbed his chin, worried. The appearance of a completely new kind of silent monk in times of no Divine nor Magister Order made his deepest fears too tangible and real.

Tilting his head while observing the creature's hands, Tarquin smiled, "This means that someone is doing a  _ terrible _ job if they let their subjects escape. They must not be the brightest ones, don't you think?"

All the questions raised by the silent monk’s presence swirled in their minds. 

"Do you know something about the renegade Magisters?" Sandor said looking at Infirma. 

She shrugged. "It's said that they are around, looking for vengeance. If you are asking me if this is their work... Well, I don't think how this,” she pointed out the monk, “fits the ' _ we are going to avenge our gods _ '. What's the point in doing more silent monks? Besides... These are useless, right? Can she see? Can she fight?" Infirma squinted at the silent monk's eyes, covered with that white thick cloud.

Sandor wondered the same. He remembered that the last council meeting had brought some attention on the strange movements of the Lizard expansion in the North. Maybe could this be related to that? "What if this is the Ancient Empire's doing?"

Arhu raised an eyebrow. "Do you suggest they are using creatures such as this?" He touched the white coarse hair of the silent monk, "Unable to be corrupted by arguments, desires, or bribes. Restless soldiers without need of food. Tools to grant a non-stop expansion into a world that had banned their masters. Mhn. Fitting. I daresay, the thought... is disturbing. However..." He raised his chin a little bit and squinted at the monk's eyes, "...I don't think she can fight anything. Can she perform magic?"

Tarquin shook his head and poked the monk with a wand that sent bits of Source stimuli through it. "In the slightest. They lost all the Source they had. There is no soul in these bodies. How could that be possible? Clearly they are not made through the standard purging procedure. I have no idea how they are crafted," he smiled shadily, "But I can work on her. And meanwhile.... you should focus more on the flying machines from now on, don't you think? In case we need... you know, run away if those who made this silent monk decided to siege the city?" Tarquin added. 

“In that case the Black Mirror has to be prioritised.” Sandor said.

“Oh, please...” Tarquin rolled his eyes. He was tired of telling Sandor how useless that mirror was. 

“Very well. You can work on her, Tarquin. But first, check her worm.” Sandor observed the monk for the last time and sighed. More and more troubles. 

Tarquin immediately put his hands at work. He certainly had such a strong fascination with Gheists and creatures alike that could not help but happily hum as he gathered some tools for the examination. 

Infirma moved aside, letting Tarquin go pass her to his own desk, a bit far away from where the silent monk was standing. Surreptitiously, she neared Sandor, looking down, and talked with a low suspicious tone “About that, Mestre,” her soft and calm tone made Sandor frown, “Can I have a word with you?" 

With a nod, Sandor remained silent, his curious sad eyes on her.

"I've been working on the black mirror for a while, and I think its surface can be activated with a potion I can craft from a compound easy to find, but...  _ problematic. _ " 

Sandor raised an eyebrow, the muscles of his face slightly tensed. 

“It has a bright side, you know. Because If I have this compound, I can also make a healthy potion for the rest of the Guardians to maintain their Source level, avoiding further loss. The problem is...Um... I know Arx has a ban of certain substances, and I understand that.... but... if you looked after me, you know I work with  _ problematic _ substances."

Sandor sighed. "I get the idea. You can work with the...  _ problematic _ substance. In secret." He whispered.

"It's not just work. I need a big tank of it. There." She pointed out a side of her own desk, placed in a corner far in the background of the big studio.

Sandor wide opened his eyes, "You want  _ that _ problematic substance  _ there _ ?"

"Aye."

"Can't you take the active compounds outside the city... and-"

"Mestre, no. I need a hundred percent pure quality tank here, to work with it, without degradation or further purity problems due to environmental contamination. And I'm an expert on it, it's more dangerous to go around with a small bottle of it than a tank here, confined in a room. I've been working with  _ this substance  _ for years, and with the best safety protocols."

Sandor remained silent for a while, thinking. This was a big, if not unforgivable, disobedience to the rules of Arx. He squinted at her. "Are you sure you are going to have results?"

"Eighty six percent. Additional benefit: anti-fading Source potions. It could be justified only by that, if you ask me. I can solve the problem of the non-reactive surface of the mirror and explore other brews to restore the soul to that poor thing." She tilted her head towards the silent monk. “There are more benefits than risks.” 

Sandor blinked, "Restore? Are you sure you can  _ restore _ a silent monk?"

"You know me, I work with chances. It's a chance. The potion I'm thinking about it's a useful shocker, not only for inanimate objects. Based on Das Vapour's reports you made us read, the way Source works in living creatures, the way you can fix it on objects, they are all equivalents. So I think that some version of the potion I'm planning to use on the mirror may work as a shocker in the silent monks too. But it's just a hypothesis."

"A chance. Mhn? To let a silent monk speak? to react at least?" Sandor lowered his head, and with his hands folded, he placed them on his lips, almost as if he were praying. He thought carefully about each of the consequences of such a decision. Then, he looked at her, his face slightly contracted in guilt. 

"The theory says that there is a chance. You know how it is." Infirma added before Sandor’s worried face.

He bit his lower lip, taking more time to think for the last time, then he spoke. "Do it. But nobody has to know this."

* * *

After a long day of work in the Academy and a heavy sentiment compressing his soul, Sandor entered his house, being welcomed by a delicious scent of food. The sound of fried vegetables coming from the kitchen curved his lips into a smile. He loved this routine. He loved this house. He loved  _ that _ man. Never in his life he had felt so fond of a place like this little home. To think that he could destroy all this with a single decision...

He put his staff in a corner of the room and walked to the kitchen. He found  _ that  _ man in casual clothes chopping some carrots. A frying pan with garlic and onion getting brown was on the stove, and at its side, a cauldron with meat and a spicy sauce was being slowly cooked. The steam coming from them awoke Sandor's hunger. 

Languorously, Sandor hugged Ifan from behind, resting his forehead on his back, tightening the embrace when Ifan’s herbal scent reached his nose. He  _ truly _ loved this routine, this man, this house. For an instant, he was in awe of the intensity of his own feelings. He had lived so many decades in such a dull state, trapped in nightmares, concealing shame and dirt under an imaginary rug. All of that felt less tangible when he walked into this house or got closer to Ifan’s warm body. He had been so lucky to find this treasure in his life. A bit of guilt compressed his heart while rubbing his forehead on that back. He could destroy all this with a wrong decision...

Noticing how emotional Sandor was, Ifan chuckled and patted those arms around his waist to break the heaviness of the mood. Then he kept chopping more vegetables. 

“It'll take time for dinner to get ready,” Ifan said, his voice soft and deep. 

Sandor did not answer. He patiently awaited Ifan to finish with the ingredients and put them on the fire. Only then, Ifan spun inside the embrace and looked at Sandor with a warm smile. With two fingertips, he pushed Sandor's chin up and leaf a peck on his lips, humming at the soft tickling that the elven mark gave him in his belly. 

Mischievous, Sandor pushed him against the edge of the table and slid his legs between Ifan's. Those brown eyes were fixed on Ifan's, his hand played with the loosen cord of Ifan's pants, sneaking under the tunic. He touched the long scar on Ifan's low abdominal — the first one he got when he started his life as a Lone Wolf — and raised his hand a little bit to caress his ribs, his fingertips tracing over more scars.

A delicious sigh escaped from Ifan's lips, who with a big smile could not stop observing his partner. His  _ husband _ . He swallowed when Sandor's free hand caressed his thigh while the one under his shirt kept going up to finally reach his nipple. The touch made Ifan shiver, he closed his eyes for a moment. A soft hum died in his throat. 

When he got used to the feeling, and his breathing became slightly deeper, Ifan looked at Sandor once again, smirking, shivering short at every time Sandor's fingertips touched his nipple. 

His eyebrows raised a bit as Sandor cast a water spell on his fingers, making the contact around his nipple slippery and cold. Working delicately, surrounding it, moving it up and down, slightly scratching it. 

Ifan moaned tensing his back, surrendered to the sexy sensations.

Enjoying his partner's reaction, Sandor sneaked his other hand — until that moment caressing up and down along Ifan's thigh — inside his pants, and with the same spell he was using on his fingertips around the nipples, he gently stroked Ifan's sex. 

Ifan moaned louder, frowning. Now he was more than defeated. He bent over, resting his forehead on Sandor's shoulder, sometimes tilting his head to a side in order to kiss that neck, to bite the chain of that ring necklace, to murmur some tender words in his ears.

Sandor loved  _ this. _ The blind trust that Ifan gave him without hesitation, knowing he was not going to abuse it. The thought brought a heaviness in his heart that, immediately he put aside. Ruining this moment was unforgivable. He needed to do this to ask for permission, somehow. 

He kept languorously working with his hands, building pleasure in Ifan until the first cracks of Source appeared on Ifan's skin. Those little flickering green veins that glowered with intensity as a direct reflection of the emotions. He loved  _ that _ too. A beautiful phenomenon that made Sourcerers too sincere to their own feelings, even if they were stubborn enough to live under layers of pretence. 

"Just take me, Sandy." Ifan whispered in a heavy, dark tone, close to his ear. A bit overwhelmed by the simultaneous touches, Ifan licked Sandor's neck.

Sandor smiled, "I wonder what that means..."

Ifan drew back a little bit and looked into his eyes, smiling. A playful and lively Sandor was a rare but a wonderful view to have. Of course Ifan was going to play along. 

"I want you to fuck me hard and fast, if not here, in our bed. Get me up on all fours, and make me grind and pant and become desperate. Make me beg for more, make me beg for you."

Sandor frowned slightly, and the hand that had been playing with his nipple lowered to rest on Ifan's waist, immobile. The other one in his pants sneaked out,softly. All Sandor's movements stopped, as his eyes lowered to Ifan's chest. His face was tense. He swallowed, as his shoulders hunched a bit. 

Worried, Ifan inclined toward him, his head tilted to one side. "What's wrong? Did... Did I say something wrong?"

Sandor sighed and a nervous smile curved his lips. "Don't be vulgar."

Ifan scoffed, "Oh? Should I say something about the stars and the moon? Like a scene from those cheesy novels you read?" He said, his rascal smile baring his fangs. His tone was gentle and humorous; there was no ill-intention in his words. It was a playful joke.

However, Sandor kept looking down, his nervous smile frost on his lips as his face tensed. For him, there was no joke in it. "Those words, you... you have just sounded like... one of those clients."

"Oh." Ifan straightened his back, surprised.  _ Damn _ . He had put his foot on his own mouth. He cupped Sandor's face with both hands and thumbed his cheeks, encouraging him slowly to look at him once again. "I'm sorry. Didn't want to kill the mood that way."

Sandor shook his head, his lips pressed in a thin line until he finally looked at him into his eyes. "It's just... The images... simply... come. They are... they are what ruin my mood."

Ifan sighed loudly, a bit guilty, "I'm sorry." Ifan kissed Sandor's forehead. He remained that way for a moment, thinking about how to fix his mistake. He drew back and smiled, "I only meant... make love to me, with me, with your magic, and your whole self. The good, the bad, the all. I'm up for everything."

Raising an eyebrow, Sandor smiled mischievously once again swallowing a knot of heavy guilt, "With my magic? you truly enjoyed  _ that..." _

Both chuckled. Ifan could only nod, blushing. 

Those words seemed to have a better effect. Sandor looked at the food on the stove and turned it off, placing a warm spell all over the pots to make the cooking slower. Then, he took Ifan's hands and pulled him to their room. 

Gently, Sandor made Ifan fall on the bed with a soft shove of his fingertips. There was no effort in it, but Ifan threw himself heavily on the mattress, as if the movement had been violent. His long hair was spread around his head and neck.

Ifan’s pants were pulled down quickly, and Sandor took the position that they had recently discovered as comfortable for both. Without any resistance, Ifan spread his legs, helping Sandor to accommodate his knees under his lower back, while that slippery water spell was cast inside him with a finger.

_ For the Fallen,  _ Ifan thought as he pushed his head against the mattress and a heavy sigh escaped from his mouth _ .  _ He really wanted  _ that _ , ready to quickly burn every desire in a moment. But he awaited obediently; there was always extra pleasure in letting his partner do all the work. 

He breathed heavily when the hard tip of whatever Sandor had cast — he did not want to think about it in that moment — started to gently push into his entrance. He spread his legs even more, resting his hands on Sandor's thighs, and restrained his own body to simply push his hips into the pleasure.

Holding Ifan's waist, Sandor bent over him a little bit, just to draw back immediately, in a short ranged motion of back and forth to carefully enter as Ifan's muscles relaxed. He spread his legs even more, resting his hands on Sandor's thighs, The movement progressed without any kind of pain for Ifan's comfort. Although Sandor's expertise in bed was quite limited, his ingeniousness to make everything free of pain was incredible. Ifan was quite surprised by that. Not even Nueleth had pegged him without a certain level of pain. Well, maybe he was forgetting the small detail of the presence of bark skin.

A loud sigh and a guttural sound trapped in his throat were heard when Sandor filled him completely. He groaned long and sustained with his lips closed, until he could finally use his voice. 

"Give me a moment." Ifan said in a whisper, touching Sandor's hands holding firmly his hips. 

Ifan breathed slowly, moving his head from a side to another, trying to relax his neck. He moved his legs in order to find the best angle, and rested his heels against the small of Sandor's back. He contracted his rear muscles, measuring the tightness of the penetration, and moaned at the resistance he found. He took one of Sandor's hands and placed it on his chest, telling him with the gesture that he wanted some attention in his nipples first. Sandor chuckled, and slowly, he bent over Ifan to reach them with his mouth as he lifted Ifan’s shirt to his neck. The movement only made the penetration deeper, and a mixture of a hum and a following hiss accompanied the motion. 

Swirling his tongue around the nipple, Sandor played with it a bit longer. Ifan could only dip his head against the mattress, compressing Sandor between his legs and feeling him go in deeper. 

"Sandy, move. Move." He managed to say in a moment of respire. 

Whatever Sandor had cast before the penetration, now it made the first movements a delicious slippery experience. Ifan bit his lover lip, his eyebrows raised in pleasure, his fingers nailed on Sandor’s thighs. Sandor moved slowly, with patience and care that made the movement more intimate. He wanted to kiss his husband, but... it was complicated, especially during the first movements. Their height difference was a lame for a quick and intense lovemaking. So he continued working with his tongue on Ifan’s nipple.

Ifan made an inarticulate long sound when Sandor started to thrust a bit deeper at the end of every penetration. It was a luscious agony that combined with that wet tongue on his nipple was awakening his most animal side. He wanted more.

"Bit faster...." Ifan whispered, eyes still closed, starting to get lost in the pleasure of the flesh. 

He had to be obedient, Sandor thought. Because pleasing Ifan was now part of his own needs; the ones that had a particular shade of guilt. So, compliant, enjoying the view of his partner surrendered by the vulnerability of this intimacy, Sandor followed the order.

The sliding movement started to become into energetic thrusts and it sped up just enough to start listening to Ifan's heavy breaths and his long relaxed sounds. That was a characteristic that had always surprised Sandor. Ifan was unbelievably vocal in bed, something he had never expected from the first impressions he got from him. But maybe it made sense. Ifan always exuded an image that made people expect from him things that were not part of his personality in the slightest. He was not a stoic, cold, bitter ex soldier with a serious lack of emotions. Quite on the contrary.

And that made a lot of sense; Ifan had always embraced human vulnerability in order to feel life running in his veins. Nothing could give more vulnerability to a Sourcerer than a bed; the only place where the uncontrollable intensity of his emotions was translated into Source and displayed all over his body, giving and receiving pleasure in the most honest and natural way.

Sandor moaned, hit by those thoughts and by the image of that man completely surrendered under him. He loved that, he loved  _ him _ . The feeling of guilt resurfaced once again but he shoved it off from his mind. He was making a mistake. He knew it. But the thought did not last longer when he heard another groan coming from Ifan.

In need of proximity, Ifan lifted his torso, placing his weight on his elbows, and reached Sandor's lips. He moved his knees a bit higher, to make the distance shorter, but an abrupt high-pitched moan escaped from his mouth, squeezing Sandor's back with his legs. That penetration had been deeper and had reached that sensitive point inside him. Bearing the intensity of that stimulation, Ifan placed all his weight on one of his elbows as an involuntary and continuous whimper escaped from his lips with each thrust. He raised an arm to softly wrap Sandor’s neck and pulled him closer for a more desperate kiss as the movement of their hips increased. The contact ignited once again the elven mark on his lip, and Ifan’s belly exploded in wild tickling.

When the need for breathing made the contact unbearable, they broke the kiss and pressed their foreheads together, heavily breathing one over the other, moaning and shuddering. To add the last level of stimulation, Sandor cast some wisps of Source that floated around them and penetrated Ifan's body, making him moan wildly as they tickled his soul and showed him some brief images of a garden. Sandor's old calm memory.

Ifan needed  _ this _ , he always needed  _ this. _ The raw pleasure of the flesh, the undeniable physical sensation of something piercing him, reaching him deeper, rubbing him. But he also needed that gentleness in those sad eyes, the care — too obvious — in each movement, the magical caress of their souls through the Source, the trust that such a man was not going to break him and consume him as a toy, as a diversion. He simply needed... this  _ love. _

"I love you, Sandy." He whimpered, unable to contain the words in his chest. 

"I love you too." Sandor said, letting the electricity in his fingertips spread all over his body, adding an extra sensation to their sweaty skins. Knowing Ifan was at the edge of the frenzy, Sandor slid his hand between the small space of their compressed bodies, and grabbed Ifan's sex, jerking him off. 

Dozens of Source cracks appeared all over Ifan’s skin, glowing on and off as the wisps jumped into his flesh. Desperate, Ifan kissed him hungrily. But the contact could not last longer. The air was not enough, and the intense spasms of Ifan's muscles due to the electricity and the sensations given by the elven mark, made any movement even more air-consuming. 

Placing most of his weight on one arm, Ifan hugged Sandor with his free arm, and hid his face in the curve of Sandor's neck. The scent of sweat and herb and sex was getting stronger, as it was the lines of Source on his skin, turning almost white due to the intensity. 

The mark of the Sourcerer that — in other times — would have exposed him to his lover, making them afraid of him in that exact moment of extreme vulnerability, meant nothing to Sandor. The wizard was still there, holding Ifan while the thrusts became deeper and the jerk along his sex faster.

_ Fever. _ It was like fever, overwhelming every sense. 

"Come inside." Ifan said, stuttering, his voice muffled against Sandor's neck. 

Not sure why, he heard Sandor chuckled but said nothing else. And then, taken aback due to a sudden discharge all over his sex, Ifan cried out Sandor's name, compulsively, fast and short, as his body trembled violently, taken over several spasms. His toes curled as his legs increased the compression around that body he was wrapping. His hand closed too violently on Sandor's hair, and his face went deeper into that neck, noticing its soft beat along Sandor’s veins.

And everything ended, leaving a soft buzz in his ears. It had been quick and intense, as it was intended.

Sandor allowed himself to collapse on Ifan, cleaning his hand against the blankets. Before he could pull out whatever he had cast, Ifan tightened the embrace with legs and arms, immobilising him. Understanding the need to remain that way, Sandor rested on him, still inside him, while both recovered their breathing. As it was expected, whatever Sandor cast was still hard. 

Eyes partially closed after the intense pleasure, Ifan hummed in an unspoken question when he felt Sandor’s arms sneaking behind his shoulders, hugging him. He smiled, oblivious to the guilty heaviness that once again took over Sandor’s soul, and let the remnants of pleasure fade in his body while feeling that delicious weight on him. 

Then, a sudden rumble came from Sandor's stomach, and both chuckled. 

“Dinner must be ready by now.” Ifan whispered, scratching Sandor's head. 

“Good, I'm hungry.”

They remained there for a long moment. 

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Bromhead, Natalie ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3308) ]: Patient of Gregorious Swann. She is a purged sourcerer recently submitted to a surgical intervention that placed a worm in her brain. You can save her in the quest  [ A Danger to Herself and Others ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/A+Danger+to+Herself+and+Others)

**Kemm, Paulina ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Lady+Paulina+Kemm) ]: Lord Linder Kemm's wife. She comes from the high spheres of the nobility and a political influencer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

Sandor entered his house after another long day of work and found Ifan sitting at the table. He approached him, giving him a peck that he did not retribute. He even drew back, slowly, breaking the contact of their lips. Ifan was not particularly affectionate that evening. His deep frown, the thin line in which his lips were pursed, and the tension in his back were screaming he was in a really bad mood. Angry even. Between his hands he was holding a mug that, by the scent in the air, contained wine. 

“Is something wrong?” Sandor's voice quivered. He had never seen Ifan so serious before. Not inside their house.

Ifan did not answer. Instead, he extended a hand towards the nearest chair in front of him, inviting Sandor to take it. He cleared his throat. 

“You are scaring me, Ifan.”

When Sandor took his place, fingers pressing each other with nervousness, Ifan's hard eyes raised and pierced him without mercy. “ Weren't you going to tell me?” His voice was deep and grave. 

Sandor's eyes jumped from side to side, quickly thinking the meaning of such words, but he could not find any answer. Biting his lower lip, Sandor tilted his head and hunched his shoulders. He frowned at him displaying his disconcert. 

“Or were you going to tell me at the last moment, like the times you decided to leave the city? Keeping me in the dark until things can't be hidden anymore?”

“What... what are you talking about?” 

“You know what’s the worst? You had every opportunity in the last months to tell me…. and you always decided not to say a word.” Ifan drank a sip of wine and put the mug on the table, in a movement more violent than he wanted to. “That damned alchemist you brought here.”

“In...Infirma? Wha- What with her?”

“Don't play fool, Sandor das Balurik, the smartest ass in Arx. It doesn’t suit you. She is the direct disciple of Zanisima. Why did you bring here the student of the same person who made the  _ Deathfog _ bombs?” Sandor frowned at his words, “Did you think I was not going to find out? That I write down any scholar of this damn city in a book without doing anything about it?”

“You can't blame a student for their teacher’s sins.”

“Dammit, Sandor. I asked some contacts about her. I _know_ she is not only the student of a crazy scholar who considered _Deathfog_ bombs a worthy challenge. She is well known for her works _in_ _Deathfog_.” Sandor looked down remaining silent. “So? Nothing to say? Your fancy tongue has been cut?”

Sandor frowned, letting a whirl of violent ideas clog in his mouth and form a knot that strangled his voice. He took a moment to clear his mind and then looked at Ifan once more, softening his initial gesture and putting aside the sudden accumulation of poisonous words that his Balurik nature tended to bring in aggressive situations. “This is why I didn't say anything. Look at you. Judging her work without even knowing what she's doing. You don’t understand her wor-”

“Really? Why? Because I’m an ignorant soldier that never went to a fancy-good-for-nothing Academy, so I can’t understand what a fancy scholar does?” Ifan hit the table with the mug. The violent gesture made Sandor hop from his chair and look aside, displaying a mixture of fear and guilt. 

Hating to imprint those emotions in his partner, Ifan sighed out of frustration. He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands to rest his forehead in them. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. He hated to be this way, especially with Samdor. But he could not avoid the sense of dark danger making him shiver. He had his own fears echoing at the back of his mind.

Carefully, Sandor stood up from his chair and approached him, placing his hand on Ifan's shoulder. “I know you have been dealing with a lot of problems lately. All these months alone, the fading Source, Sanguinia Tell, Paulina Kemm, their blackmail on you, the rumours. I didn't want to add more worries to your already long list. I'm your right hand here. Remember? Trust in me.”

The touch with those calm words relaxed Ifan, until he uncovered his face once more and looked at Sandor. This time, his eyes were gentler. “Sandor, just promise me that she is not going to work on something nasty. I know the kind of scholar she is.”

“And what kind is that?

“The ruthless one.”

“She won't." Sandor smiled nervously, hoping Ifan could not notice the lie tinging his words. "She may reconstruct part of the Source of a silent monk and even produce potions to prevent further loss of Source in your soldiers. She has wonderful fresh ideas. She doesn't rely on magic, as I do. We can take advantage of her wonderful particular perspective. An alchemist perspective.” 

“So, can she heal them? The monks, I mean.”

“Part of them.”

“Part? Recovering a shadow of what a silent monk was once can’t be called a cure. That doesn't help.” He frowned.

“It  _ may _ help. It may break their isolated condition. There is too much to research and experiment. If we can break the communication barrier, make them a bit more responsive than what they are now, we can heal them. We need to know what's happening in their minds, what they feel when we treat them. We need to know the symptoms they are experiencing at the same moment we are working on them. We need this.”

“ _ Need _ ?” Ifan looked at Sandor with worried eyes. When a scholar began to use that verb, certain excesses started to be justified. “Are you sure about this? This woman is going to test on silent monks whether they want it or not. She’ll give more reason to Sanguinia to keep them as slaves.”

Sandor remained silent for a moment. “I know. It's terrible, but if she can reverse the silent monk condition, I can heal them... Tell me this is worse than massacre them all.”

Ifan sighed observing Sandor with pain. He wanted to believe in his words as if he could have once again that naive faith of his youth. But his experience — and mainly his guts — were telling him that uncontrolled experiments were never a good idea, and scholars _ always _ overpassed their limits in the name of curiosity. He wanted to believe in him, but he had been noticing lately the weight of Sandor's decisions. It did not matter how much he loved that man, he could not overlook that Sandor was a scholar, who had been walking the thin line of abuse a long time ago. Every monk's nape was proof of it.

“I don't know. I don't like this. Not a bit.” Ifan took the border of the mug with his fingertips and lifted it several times, idle.

“You have taught all Guardians to accept their own responsibility in their actions. I'm not different. I'm responsible. And I'm your right hand, no less. Just trust in me.”

The mug slipped from Ifan's fingers and fell on the table, spilling the last bits of wine on the surface forming a long line heading to the border.

Those last words finished any remnant of Ifan's hard gesture. He looked at the spilled wine, now dripping to the ground. “I've trusted before. And I've been burnt by that trust. I don't want that happening again. Not from you.” 

Ifan stood up and left the house through the secret passage. That night he was going to sleep in his barrack's chambers. 

Looking at the drops of wine on the ground, Sandor felt his chest breaking. 

* * *

A week had passed since Infirma's new experiments had been performed on the few silent monks that Sanguinia Tell had left in the Academy. The work, despite being a bit cruel, had given interesting results, allowing the silent monks to acquire a sense of listening more pronounced than the usual one. A sudden noise in a silent room could make them force to look at the source of it, suggesting that they had consciousness of the place and what could mean a noise. 

She had also worked in new safe potions that protected the level of Source present in living creatures. These potions had been a success in the barracks. Many Guardians that were resigned to lose their Source progressively, could still grab their last bits and keep using it in their fights. The treatment did not recover their Source levels to the initial ones before the phenomena, but it helped to stop its quick progression.

Those good news produced an opaque joy in Sandor. Despite the interesting results that Infirma had given to the Academy, Ifan was still avoiding him. 

That morning, Arhu entered Sandor’s studio bringing with him several reports about the flickering Source. The potions could slow down or even froze the constant loss of Source, but they were still too far away from truly understanding the phenomenon. That was the reason why the main scholars of the Academy were around the desk on which the reports were spread. Knelt on a chair, Infirma took page after page, reading in detail the statistics that Arhu did with information all around Rivellon. Tarquin remained standing up in front of the table, reading a book on his hands and peering at the table here and there to check facts. Lost in thoughts, Sandor was simply resting his chin on his palm, elbow on his crossed legs, observing nothing in particular. 

The strange behaviour that Sandor had been displaying during that week was not missed by Tarquin. After turning several pages, he glanced at him, wondering the reasons for such a change of mood. Unable to endure his curiosity any longer, Tarquin closed his book and approached Sandor, whispering close to him. Infirma and Arhu were discussing something written in a report in the other extreme of the desk. 

“Is everything fine, my friend? I’ve noticed your attention span has lately been quite… short.” Tarquin said, curving his lips in that knowing smile that always caused unease on everyone.

Blinking once, suddenly catapulted to reality, Sandor straightened his back and looked up at the necromancer. “I'm sorry. Were you saying?”

“What’s darkening your mind?”

Sandor rubbed his face and observed the other two scholars making sure they would not hear him. “I've just... I have some problems at home.”

Tarquin raised his frown, squinted eyes, “Troubles in paradise?”

“A lot of stress I guess...”

“No, no, no.” Infirma said loudly. Tarquin and Sandor’s attention immediately focused on her and Arhu. 

“You can’t be sure that losing Source is a decay effect.” Arhu said, crossing his arms delicately while looking down at the dwarf.

Sandor dragged his chair closer to the table and placed his forearms on it, deciding to finally join the discussion, "I have another hypothesis based on the statistics." He took a couple of sheets from a folder he had on his lap and put the evidence in the middle of the table. "Ninety percent, roughly, who lost their Source had not been born as a Sourcerer. They received the power after the end of Divinity."

"What about the few cases that were Sourcerers?" Infirma said, putting down a sheet, “You can’t claim it’s a theory if you have counter examples that refute it.” 

"I wouldn’t be so bold to assume it’s a theory, but it certainly explains the statistics much better. Maybe those exceptional cases were not much powerful in the first place, so the weakening of their Source meant a total loss of it. There must be a trick somewhere." Sandor said, remembering Ifan's words. If Ifan — powerful master of Source as he was — was starting to lose his power as well, his whole theory about born Sourcerers would be refuted in a second.

"Even if the link is related to that fact, we have a massive amount of population of non-born-Sourcerers who still have their powers when others have already lost them. I found curious that not everyone is losing their Source at the same rate. I may expect some variations depending on the individuals, but not as broad as these. If the causes of fading Source were so simple, it should affect everyone in the same power level at the same time." Arhu said, pulling softly his goatee. 

"So could that old crazy woman’s theory make sense? and this phenomenon is you both dragging Source from everyone around you, even if you don't realise about it?" Tarquin added, looking at Arhu and Sandor. "The most logical explanation for that lack of homogeneity is that those who lost their powers are closer or under longer exposure to what steals their energy. Meaning you two. Does this concept match the statistics?"

"Are you really buying her crazy superstition?" Infirma said, shaking her head in disappointment, “What a scholar you are.” 

Tarquin raised both hands, proud, "I'm here to vocalise the comments that nobody wants to hear. Just in case."

“No, Tarquin. No. Some of those who already lost their Source are farmers that live far away from any wizard. We are not dragging anyone's Source. And, just for your information,  _ we _ would know it.” Sandor said and scratched his chin with a finger, then he looked at Infirma, “Did you study the monolith found in the barracks?” 

“I didn't have much time, with all the potions and the experiments on the silent monk going on.”

Sandor sighed, and when he was going to continue the discussion about possible explanations for the fading Source, the whole ground trembled, and a strong shock wave of Source passed through their bodies and made them shiver. Thunders and explosions could be heard far away, followed by screams. 

"What's that?" Tarquin whispered. 

Arhu and Sandor looked at each other. Without hesitation, Arhu ran away heading to the exit of the academy, but Sandor took his time. The fear of a second swarm of Voidwoken paralysed him for a moment. 

The racket had happened in Arx's entrance. By the time Arhu -- and a bit more later Sandor -- reached it, several groups of Guardians were already wounded and spread on the ground, coughing blood and groaning in pain. A small formation was still standing, blocking the entrance, facing the enemy that none of them could see. This group was made of bleeding Guardians, yielding a shield in one hand and summoning a flickering Source bolt in the other. The amount of wounded soldiers suggested it was a swarm of Voidwoken, but unlike the last time, no flapping or clicking sounds could be heard. The silence of the enemy was evident.

Suddenly, a sonic blast pushed the last tired group over the inner streets of the city, giving to the recently arrived scholars a clean visual of the enemy. A single monstrous silent monk, similar to the one that the academy had hosted a week ago, was in front of them, slightly levitating. His long brittle white hair was floating around a deformed face, the blank balls of its eyes were glowing in Source, and pieces of ragged clothing revealed a rotten skin underneath. 

Not risking a new attack, Arhu cast a shield around everyone, as Sandor took his staff from his back and conjured a massive spell of healing. Violent concentric waves of magical water that were born from his feet broke against the fallen soldiers, stopping their bleeding, closing their wounds, and recovering them from their pain with its refreshing shock. 

Soon after, Ifan appeared with a small group of veteran Guardians. Barking retreat orders for the inexperienced ones, he faced the creature with his soldiers in a direct attack. With raised shields, they rushed into the enemy, but the attempt did not work. As soon as the soldiers got closer, the monster shrieked, catching some of them in its sonic range and throwing them against the walls of the nearby buildings. The soldiers that avoided the blast, fell on the ground pressing their bleeding ears with their hands. Ifan was one of them.

With a potent hit of his staff against the ground, Sandor cast a second massive healing wave that raised several meters over him and spread in all directions washing everyone. After the refreshing impact, a soft watery shield remained around each of the soldiers. For a brief moment, Ifan looked back over his shoulder to see him. And sneezed five times in a row.  _ Damn hydrosophy school _ . 

Barking orders, he reorganized the group of quickly recovered soldiers and shouted at them to form a V-formation, with Ifan at the head. Protected with the water magical shield around them, they ran through the monster again; their metal shields and swords clashing against the creature. The silent monk had no escape to such a front of swords, and the piercing of its body by dozens of swords was imminent, but then, it teleported behind the formation to release a violent attack of sonic waves. The group flew away again in all directions, hitting violently against walls and houses around. Ifan and a few ones with fast reflexes jumped away just in time to avoid the blow. Every false movement meant more and more soldiers hurt.

The creature remained in that new place for a while, inactive, as if the teleportation had exhausted it and now needed time for recovering. Such a pause gave the Guardians enough time to be healed by Sandor and surround the creature once again. However, out of the blue, the foe teleported itself to the Arx’s entrance and unleashed a massive Source blast of power concentrated in a cone. It was a blast like those that Sandor had always suffered, but instead of being made of green fresh flames, this one was of purple Source — the worst one, the cursed Source. The blast burnt soldiers that screamed and ran in panic, ripping off their skin as dark tendrils bloomed out from their inside. 

Trembling by the overwhelming fear coming from those screams in combination with the reminiscences of past nightmares, Sandor summoned a profuse blessed healing rain, giving them a temporary relief from the panic caused by the curse but not the pain of their bleeding limbs. The lingering pain of cursed wounds could not be erased immediately with waves of normal healing. 

Tarquin, who arrived at the fighting scene a bit later, called Ifan’s attention and threw at him a box and a collar. Tensed by the situation, Ifan’s reflexes acted unconsciously, making him grab the items in the air before he could think about them. When he recognised them, he hesitated. Not sure if he wanted to leash a monster like that, Ifan protested in a low voice but ended up accepting the idea. He could always kill the beast soon after he trapped it. 

Determined, Ifan dropped his shield and sword aside -- not the best weapons for sneaky fast movements -- and ran quickly toward the monster, making every step count. He dodged some sonic attacks that almost reduced him to the ground, but he finally reached the beast to leash it. In the same moment he was going to activate the box, the monster blasted Source again destroying the box and throwing him against a column. He broke it in two with the impact, falling on the ground and rolling some meters away. By the sound of the hit, Ifan knew that several ribs had been broken and by the sharpening pain in each breathing, some of them had pierced his lungs. He growled, coughing blood, painfully. A violent acid-like soreness on his forearm made him know that cursed Source had reached him too, and it was a matter of seconds until those damn black tendrils would rip his skin and bloom from his flesh. It was bad. A very bad situation. 

However, in a blink of an eye, he could feel a rushing massive amount of healing spreading fast all inside his body, closing wounds and restoring his bones with satisfying cracking sounds. Sandor's healing powers had fixed his ribs and removed the curse on his forearm before it could develop its painful stage. Immediately after feeling a great fresh relief Ifan started to sneeze uncontrollably, unable to even open his eyes.  _ Fucking damn hydrosophy school. _

Lysanthir and DeSelby joined the group and bought enough time for Ifan to stand up once again on his feet. They fought alongside their recruits, backed by Arhu's shields and Sandor's healing. The fight was tough for everyone, especially for the newbies, but certainly it would provide them an invaluable experience for the future battles. After some minutes of ruthless confrontation, DeSelby delivered the last slay cutting the creature in two. Suddenly, a lugubrious silence was spread, everyone too exhausted to simply cheer at the victory. 

With the monster apparently dead, Arhu dropped off the shield while Tarquin approached the specimen and inspected it in detail. It was a Gheist, but of a different kind. Unique. Exquisite. It had sewn lips and dark circles under its eyes. They were covered with a white magical mantle that suggested this creature was blind. Its hair was long and brittle. The pale greenish skin was hardened and festered in a way that looked like melted. The deformation of its body was of such magnitude that it was impossible to know from what race this Gheist came from. The only certainty that Tarquin had was that this Gheist could not speak nor see, but something clearly was reverberating in its mind, commanding it to fight. He sighed, disappointed by the death of such a mysterious creature that had nothing to do with the standard silent monks crafted by Magisters years ago. This one was absolutely fascinating. 

"Curse. Why did you kill it? You savages" Tarquin said, casting some Source into the pieces of its body as a way to reanimate it, but it was impossible. The chest had been split into two, and all the brittle inner organs and blood were spread all around it.

“What do you want to do with that killing machine, anyway?” Lysanthir frowned, placing his axes at the back of his belt and resting on his own knees, breathing in and out.

"What the hell is it? It's not a normal silent monk." Ifan wiped out the blood from his mouth and the sweat from his temples. He sneezed three more times. 

"It's a Gheist. A wonderful specimen. As rare as the last silent monk you found.” Tarquin added, rubbing a lock of that brittle hair among his fingers. 

“Is someone making new and more powerful silent monks? Really?” Lysanthir looked at Arhu, who simply shrugged. “Are the renegade Magisters to blame?"

“Hard to say. We are all in the dark, here.” Arhu said. 

Ifan approached Tarquin ignoring Sandor who was still recovering his breath some steps away behind them “You. Do you have something to do with this mess? Or that alchemist you have found?” He said before another sneeze.

Tarquin pressed his palm on his own chest and raised an eyebrow, while the rest of the scholars looked at the commander, wary. The question was offensive. 

“No, Sir.” Arhu's voice caught Ifan's attention. “This has nothing to do with what the academy is working with. I would not put my city at risk for... what? a mad creature like this?” 

After several sneezes more, Ifan exhaled, touching his own ribs which now had a lingering pain spreading all along his body. His hard eyes fell on Sandor, who worried by his condition simply shook his head softly, in silence, as if he were emphasizing what Arhu had just said. 

Ifan’s guts twitched. 

* * *

Sandor returned to his home early to keep working in the translation of books. During that week, the house was deadly silent, and there was not the usual scent of cooked food filling the air. Ifan clearly had not been there for a while. He was not there, at that moment. And he was not going to be there, later, at night either. Not even after such a rough fight against that Gheist in the morning. Sandor could not stop thinking with sadness that Ifan was preferring to heal his own wounds with traditional slow procedures in the barracks instead of looking for him. 

Since Ifan knew about Infirma's(*) relationship with Zanisima(*), he had avoided Sandor's presence as if he were the carrier of a contagious illness. They also stopped talking to each other, and their interactions were reduced to a simple exchange of shallow words related to the academy reports during the council meeting under Ifan's hard eyes.

Ifan had not even appeared during Sandor's physical training either. Instead, he had ordered some other Guardians to train with him. Since that moment, DeSelby had been the one helping Sandor to develop new defensive techniques; and rarely, Lysanthir helped her too. But the elf was most of the time annoying Sandor with questions related to Ifan's recent change of mood. 

Sandor sat in front of the table and opened a book, placing several blank papers by its side. He could only think in those cold green eyes that he had been meeting during the week and during that fight. They were not tinged with hatred but a deep animal sense of mistrust. 

Hurting Ifan with a blast meant nothing to him. He would simply smile at Sandor, knowing it was an accident. But lying to him… That was hurting him deeply and deliberately. Sandor sighed. He could not blame Ifan for his reaction. It was his own doing. 

After all the trust issues that Ifan had passed through in his life, an omission of such revealing information done by a person he trusted so much to the point to be marked by the elven bond, was not only painful but deeply cruel. Sandor could not pretend ignorance about how badly Ifan had been broken by betrayal many times, or about how this omission had strong resemblance with Lucian’s lies. It was only natural to see Ifan behave this way. Sandor was important in his life, therefore he had given him a lot of power over him. A power that was directly proportional to the ability to hurt him deeply.

Sandor turned a page and bit his lower lip, worried. He took his feather with ink and wrote a word on the blank paper sheet but stopped short. He had forgotten what he had just read. He hid his face in his hands. He could not keep translating that book as long as those thoughts were lurking around. 

Infirma’s past relationships were nothing in comparison with what Sandor was still hiding. The mere possibility that, one day, Ifan would discover it tightened his chest. He hated to hide secrets from him, but what could he do? They were so close to improving the connection of the Silent monks with reality, so close to obtaining a cure of the flickering Source, so close to activating the black mirror. 

The use of the  _ forbidden compound  _ had been key to unlock the mysteries which now, the Guardians were taking advantage of. Obtaining solutions was the best way to keep rising hope and keep on fighting. It was also the solution to calm down the worried almost panicking masses. He could not put all those advantages and knowledge under the rug and forget about these results just because a single man was too stubborn to stop seeing things in black and white. The binary conceptualisation of solutions was always a bad decision. For all Rivellon.

He shivered, cold. He stood up from his chair and prepared some tea. He needed a break. As he did every night, he brought two mugs and a kettle on the table. He had always an extra one prepared in case Ifan would come. It was a warm thought to believe that maybe, at midnight, Ifan would appear to drink with him their nocturnal tea and soften his radical position about the alchemist.

He poured some tea in his mug and caressed his own hand, imagining it was Ifan’s. Then, he kissed his own knuckles, knowing how pathetic he looked. He missed him madly. Resting his chin in a hand, he drank slowly while observing the empty mug at his front, beside the empty chair. He missed him so much. Closed eyes, he imagined those strong arms surrounding him from behind.  _ You are always giving your back to entrances _ . He smiled, touching the ring pending from his necklace. He missed him so so so much. 

In the centre of the table there was the flowerpot he had been working on for a while. He took it and observed its surface with a sad smile. Few green shoots were there, struggling to push through the earth. During that week, he had been using his Source to train the growth spell. Although it was far from being perfect and powerful, it was working nonetheless. That flowerpot was the irrefutable proof that he was good at being stubborn, that his decisions were always the best one in the long term. That was a stubbornness from which useful fruits could be harvested. A kind of stubbornness located in the right place, or at least, he liked to think so. If only Ifan could also see it that way. 

Sandor could only hope to find all the answers before Ifan would discover the darkest secret he was still hiding. Because Sandor was also sure of it: Ifan would  _ know  _ it eventually. And the consequences... well... he knew he was not going to like them. He was not even sure if he was prepared for them.

Putting aside those grim thoughts, and forcing himself to focus on the translation of the books -- a task of great importance to keep Sanguinia under control-- he worked for hours, drinking tea, until he fell asleep on the table.

He dreamt about Ifan placing a blanket on his shoulders.

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Infirma Fermed ** [Headcanon, original character]: Dwarven alchemist, specialised in  _ Deathfog  _ . Disciple of Zanisima.

**Zanisima** [  [ Divinity: Original Sin II  ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3138) ]: She is a dwarven scientist who worked on a  _ Deathfog  _ device. One of those devices was given to Ifan by Alexandar under the lie that it was a portal to save the elves when in fact it was a  _ Deathfog  _ bomb.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

_ I've trusted before. And I've been burnt by that trust. _

More weeks passed by, and Ifan’s phrase was still reverberating in Sandor’s mind. Every time he saw the tank full of _ Deathfog _in the bottom of his studio he hear it over and over again. 

That tank was inside a security crystal box that would shut it up in case of an accident. Infirma guaranteed that it was the safest system to keep the compound pure and secured. Most of the time it was covered with a black mantle to avoid the reaction that light may produce in it, but from time to time, that cover had to be removed in order to let Ifirma work with the element. Despite being perfectly concealed in the enormous studio, the presence of the tank was undeniable. Sandor was not free from the deep fear predating on him every time he glimpsed at that corner. The huge betrayal that such _ Deathfog _ tank represented was eating him away, especially when it was uncovered. As it was at that moment. 

Infirma was filling a glass of that deadly liquid, wearing a couple of gloves and apron that Sandor knew quite well. Those were the special anti-_ Deathfog _ gear that Tarquin had developed time before Sandor and Ifan went to the forest. Since that time, the necromancer had improved its material and resilience, and now they were part of Infirma’s security set to manipulate the compound. 

Observing her, Sandor could not stop chewing his nails, unable to focus on his own work. He was still trying to justify his rotten lie to himself. This was necessary. His scholar side was sure of it. Historically speaking, disobedience of this magnitude had opened dozens of paths to explore the unknown and discover vital improvements in the short and long term. The world of today was the result of the disobedience of the past; that was undeniable. This was not going to be different. In the end, what could truly represent his small defiance in comparison with all the benefits that they would acquire eventually?. He kept repeating to himself, as the doubts compressed his chest.

_ I've trusted before. And I've been burnt by that trust. _

Everything was going to be fine, he kept saying to himself. Infirma had a flawless protocol to work with that dangerous compound. All the security measures she took and the knowledge associated with a responsible use of it had to be more than enough. According to her own words, as long as the protocol was followed, everyone was safe.

Tarquin had congratulated him for such defiance against the rules of the Guardians in favour of knowledge and experimentation; a compliment that Sandor could not feel as such. On the contrary, it was not pride what filled his chest but a dirty feeling of cheating.

However, despite his uneasiness, day after day he kept disobedient. He could tell Infirma to get rid of that tank, wiping out the fact that it was there once. It was not too late yet. But he was not going to do it. He insisted in his disobedience, as he had done during the last days in the Balurik Academy, years ago. He was determined despite the fears.

He buried his face in his hands and inhaled, trying to forget that situation. Academies knew quite well they sheltered inherent risks by themselves. Knowledge was never developed without risks, without stepping into wrong paths, without mistakes that could cost lives. Every scholar knew about the risks that their research embodied. Every scholar kept doing a compromise with that fact and their actions. He was not different.

Infirma called for his presence at the corner of the studio, where the black mirror had been placed. That evening it was going to be _ the day _ . Wearing a pair of anti- _ deathfog _ gloves, she was holding a pipe of a green potion close to the mirror. Arhu and Tarquin were there too, watching at a safe distance considering the bad reactions that the black mirror had had towards Tarquin in the past.

“So... this is it?” Sandor said, observing the potion as the light coming from the windows reflected in it producing strange brilliant shapes on the walls. The liquid inside was green, sometimes turquoise, sometimes purple. 

“It is. With ninety percent of chances of working. This potion will shock the surface and will unlock the power of the black mirror. It will make it functional, or at least, responsive to your Source.”

With gloved hands, Sandor took the pipe and poured the potion on the mirror's surface. Slowly, as the air was filled with fizzles, all the microcracks over its surface closed, and its usual purple miasma stopped oozing. That reaction made everyone smile, and a _ bravo _ escaped from Arhu's lips. However, soon after the surface of the mirror started to become clearer, a rumble made the whole academy tremble. The desks shook, some books fell from the shelves, the ground roared, and a dark chill crossed everyone 's back. Suddenly, everyone in Arx felt the deepest darkness in the back of their minds. 

The tremor continued as the surface of the mirror became clearer and clearer. Sandor placed his hands on its surface, pouring Source in it, and looked into its reflection. On the other side there was a shadow, something small, of a size of a bug, running toward him. He tilted his head and frowned. Its shape was too blurred with the constant trembling.

Meanwhile, in the barracks, all the Guardians were running along the corridors and taking their weapons, agitated by the temblor. In minutes, several groups of soldiers were sent all over the city to find the source of the quake. They feared another attack of Voidwoken. The group assigned to the academy was led by Ifan, who wasted no more time and rushed to the place. He broke into Sandor’s studio, followed by Lysanthir and a couple of soldiers, and saw the wizard pouring energy into that damned mirror.

"What the hell are you all doing? Why is the ground-" Ifan said, but his words were interrupted by a green glow caught by the corner of his eye. He looked at the far corner of the studio, and his face contracted in horror. It was the tank. That tank that Infirma, too eager to test her potion, had forgotten to cover with the black mantle. 

It took Ifan a second to process the reason of why that damned tank was there. His sight fell on the ground, slowly, his nostrils flared, as he realised the betrayal he had just suffered. Witnessing the transformation of Ifan’s face, Sandor winced, as his husband gave him the coldest of the looks. 

No words were needed to acknowledge that something had been broken between them. 

Sandor swallowed, knowing this was the beginning of his nightmare. That was the man he had feared when he met him for the first time; that was the man that enemies faced before dying mercilessly. Now it was him who was receiving _ that _ look. Sandor drowned a whimper in his throat.

However, despite Ifan's first intention of yelling at Sandor, his eyes immediately jumped at the sight of something moving in the mirror’s reflection. Sandor's hands, still on its surface, suddenly felt hot. He turned to see the mirror, as a looming threat creeped out in the back of his mind. Some instinct in him told him to remove his hands immediately, and so he did, escaping in that moment from a slashing tendril that would have severed his hand. 

Sandor stepped back, observing the mirror in surprise. The more that shapeless figure got closer to the surface, the stronger the quakes became; the origin of the temblor was now evident: the mirror itself. The whole Academy trembled for a long moment until the image of a vipery enormous blue eye appeared on the reflective surface. It looked around, as if it were seeking for something, and its pupil contracted into a thin slit when it focused on Tarquin.

Huge violent black tendrils jumped across the surface towards the necromancer. Dark electricity was wrapping those corrupted limbs, while cursed fire and poisonous miasma dripped from it. A high-pitched roar infused despair in everyone's mind, commanding them to lose their senses to madness. Everyone resisted the call and endured the temptation, except Ifan.

He felt his own will falter; it was the same forgotten sensation he used to have when Rhalic controlled him. It catapulted his mind to a safe place surrounded by the images of the horrors of his past, trying to convince him to simply give up. Guided by his feral instincts, his reflexes forced him to awoke from that trance and immediately draw his sword, charging it with Source. He leaped over the mirror and cut down those dark extensions as he could feel the almost faded control over his mind. The tendrils disappeared into ashes before they could fall on the ground.

Without hesitation, Arhu ran to the mirror and moved his hands drawing a sealing rune on it. The image on its reflection confirmed his suspicions. The other side of the mirror _ was _ another dimension. One that now was completely aware of their existence. Wishing this encounter could not alter the other side, he modified the mirror the same way he had done with all the portals spread in Cyseal and Luculla forest a millennium ago. From now on, the mirror would be only set to this dimension.

The quakes, the dark feeling in the back of their minds, and the suffocating atmosphere disappeared in the same moment the mirror was sealed. They took some seconds to recover themselves in silence. Arhu looked at Tarquin, who despite the scary moment, was safe and sound. The tendrils never reached him thanks to Ifan's quick instincts. Still shocked, Sandor was recovering his breath while staring at the surface of the mirror. He could not believe he had been wrong. It could not be possible. That mirror was safe. It had to be.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" a strangulated voice, fully disappointed, filled the silence. Everyone turned their heads to see the owner of that voice. It did not sound like Ifan's. 

Sandor and Ifan locked their eyes on one another. Slowly, as Ifan's temper became more and more irritated, his green eyes morphed into pain and wrath. Sandor could not do anything but being a passive witness of it. The Lone Wolf was taking over that gentle man, wounded, baring his teeth. Goosebumps suddenly spread all over Sandor's body. All that ire he had always seen in Ifan's eyes when he talked about Lucian, was now directed to him. Those tender green eyes were now feral and violent.

"I fucking told you to stop with this damn mirror. What the hell do you want to accomplish?! To kill us all?! To destroy Arx?!” Ifan's Source flashed in his eyes, and Afrit materialised behind him, growling. His fur was made of Source flames. Still with his sword at hand, Ifan pointed with it at the corner of the studio, “And why is there _ Deathfog _ here?! In Arx!"

Ifan's nostrils flared and his eyes became unfocused. Images of the past appeared in front of him, memories that, as a good _ Dhaleram(*) _ , recovered their life in his flesh. He saw the forest elves falling on the ground, melted and consumed by the fog, while their screams, multiplied by thousands, echoed in his mind. His nose was attacked by the stench of death corrupted by the _ Deathfog _. Afrit howled. All those nightmares that Ifan had been suffering since that day, returned in that moment, more vivid than ever, overlapping one another. His breath stuttered, and Source violently increased in his body out of rage. 

"It was needed to develop the potion that could activate the mirror..." Infirma said, oblivious to the dangerous mental state of the Commander. 

Wary, Lysanthir pushed gently the other soldiers behind him while he stepped forward to stand as a shield between Ifan and Infirma, just in case. 

"I don't care!" Ifan yelled, then he glared at Lysanthir. "Bring the _ Deathfog _ squad and get rid of this shit."

"But..." Sandor's soft voice was almost unheard by everyone except Ifan. 

"_ But _ nothing!” Now the sword was directed to Sandor, “I let you convince me that you were doing the right thing. I trusted you to even face Tell and convince her for you to get your academy. I trusted you that you would do your shitty scholarly thing to save people, to heal them, to protect them from the Voidwoken..."

"And I do."

"NO! You betrayed that trust! You... you took advantage of... of _ me _ .” Ifan's voice broke. He looked down for an instant, winced as he endured the pain, and returned to look at him with the eyes of a wounded wolf, “You used my trust in you. Like all fucking scholars do. They only care for their stupid books, their stupid research." Ifan looked at the _ Deathfog _ tank, frowning deeply. It was unbelievable. He breathed in, trying to calm down, and sheathed his sword. "Get rid of this shit, of this mirror, of everything. _ Now _!"

Sandor stepped forward, his voice calm and low, as usual, "But this research may help-"

"SHUT UP!" Ifan's shout surprised even Lysanthir, who raised his eyebrows and moved his lips as if he had just whistled mutely. “I'm _ not _ asking. This is an _ order. Get. Rid. Of that. Shit!” _ Ifan's penetrating look never dodged Sandor's.

Sandor frowned. “Stop this, Ifan. I did nothing wrong. This is what a Guardian should do, right? To do what's best for the people. Even if it means to disobey a superior. Is it not what you have taught everyone?” 

That was the last straw. Ifan's eyes flickered in Source for a second, anger and frustration raising his Source level suddenly. As an immediate result, Afrit's fur-blazes turned more intense. "Are you fucking kidding me?” Ifan said. 

Ifan strode ahead with the violent energy of a tempest. For a fraction of a second, Sandor thought that Ifan would hit him. And even though the blow never came, the thought made him deeply sad. So low had they reached?

Despite the clenched fists, Ifan managed to only grab Sandor from the collar of his robe and pushed him against the wall, their eyes locked on one another, defiant. 

“_ Deathfog _ , Sandor. You are talking about _ Deathfog! _ How is this the best for the people?"

"We are research-"

“I don't care!”

This time Sandor raised his voice, “You should care! Where the hell do you think those potions that maintain your soldier's Source came from?”

"I. Don't. Care!" He yelled, hitting Sandor's back against the wall with each word while thousands of elven faces melted in his memory screamed surrounded by that deadly fog. Sandor whimpered and, for the first time, he let the fear transpire on his face. A fear that somehow stopped Ifan's increasing ire. He released him, stepping back. He rubbed his face and sighed. In a more neutral voice he added, "Get rid of all this shit now, or leave Arx."

Sandor blinked, still paralysed against the wall, as his eyes became wetter.

Ifan averted Sandor's mortified face, knowing his resolve would falter otherwise. That long silence filled Ifan's soul with dread. He swallowed hard, glaring at the tank of _ Deathfog _ , forcing himself not to hesitate, so he would not let Sandor convince him that all this was an over-reaction. _ Deathfog _, for the Seven Gone. What the hell was Sandor thinking? And the worst of it all was.... that everything was going on behind his back. His gut had been right. Sandor had been lying to him… but he never suspected the magnitude of such a lie.

His feelings were now so mixed with hatred and disappointment that he could not measure the situation objectively. He wanted to believe that there was to be a good reason for Sandor to take such a reckless decision, but he knew that, maybe, this way of excusing him was just his blindness out of love for him. A love that was numbing his perception of what was right. A love that was making him believe in someone that, maybe, it was not worthy anymore. Exactly like Lucian, like Alexandar, like Aywyn. He trusted once, and had been burnt by that trust. He promised to himself to never do it again. And he had failed. _ Again _.

Ifan exhaled, devastated. The only thing he was able to understand without hesitation was that there was a tank of _ Deathfog _ in the middle of Arx, and _ that _ could be done for people's sake. _ Never. _

He hardened his face once more and looked at Sandor offering his coldest Lone Wolf eyes, "You have twenty hours to decide."

Then, he left the academy, followed by an agitated Afrit. Deep inside, Ifan trusted in his power on Sandor, in the unavoidable pressure that love could imprint on the other. He wanted to believe that Sandor would think about his actions and acknowledge his mistakes, pretending to ignore that Sandor had got more than enough time to think about it during all that time. What a fool. Ifan was, even in the very last moment, still wanting to believe in him.

Lysanthir rubbed his face and looked at the scholars. “The way you fucked up, people. Just don't make this harder.” Turning his face to the other soldiers, he continued, “You, bring the _ Deathfog _ squad. We need to remove this.”

Sandor exhaled, drawing back his head against the wall. It had just happened. His worst fear had just happened. 

[ ](https://about-feathers-and-claws.tumblr.com/post/189469478367/no-you-betrayed-that-trust-you-you-took)

* * *

As he had been doing for weeks, that night Ifan also slept in the barracks' chamber, enduring the desperate need to run across the corridor and take Sandor in his arms asking for forgiveness for his roughness. But he also was hurt, betrayed. Sandor had lied to him. That was a fact. Comparing his lie with Lucian's kept hurting him even more. He had promised to himself to never ever repeat that mistake. To give someone blind trust, to follow them without question, to put them before everyone else. And he had concluded that, unconsciously, he had exactly done that with Sandor.

His head was a mess. The dichotomy of loving and hating the same person at the same time, of believing in someone that had proved treacherous were making him mad. 

He was begging to the world, to nature, to whatever entity left after the fall of the gods, that would send Sandor to his chamber, asking for forgiveness. So that they could heal this deep wound that, despite having professional implications, had reached a personal level too. He was expecting Sandor’s remorse, so he could use it as an excuse to cover up the _ Deathfog _tank event in the reports for Sanguinia Tell. He was ready to overlook the threat that Sandor had put the city under, only if Sandor acknowledged his mistakes. He was more than ready to put the Guardian Oath aside, because in the end, he knew it was a lie; a lie he pretended to believe in. The bare truth was that he could never put the Guardian duties first when it was about them. Lucian had taught him that. It was always more important to protect what you loved than what your superiors wanted to. Ifan could barely believe this conclusion; both were liars in a way or another.

He was convinced that late at night, Sandor would appear in his chamber, and with his sad brown eyes he would ask him to fix what had been broken, giving a damn to what Guardian protocols said about situations like that. And he would accept without hesitation. 

But the night passed by, the dawn came and with it, the fuss in the corridors and the constant murmur in the kitchen. Having slept nothing, Ifan stood up from his bed and went to have his unusual breakfast. He was now more hurt than before, acknowledging that he still kept believing in Sandor and in his good will to fix this.

Lysanthir sat by his side when he spotted him alone at the table. Unlike the other days, he was not smiling. 

“He left.” The elf dropped.

Opening wide his eyes, heartbeat going wild, Ifan snapped his head to look at him directly. “What?”

“The Mestre. He left during the night, I was on my round of patrolling the entrance. He told me not to inform you. Let's say I've forgotten his request.” He smirked for a second, then he continued, serious, “He was carrying several bags and that big mirror on his back.”

Ifan rubbed his forehead, “The Fucking Fallen. He is as stubborn as a mule. Damn idiot. So he is going to leave the clinic? The academy? Just because that fucking mirror? The hell with him.” He took a piece of bread and bit it like an angry wolf bites a worthless prey that was too much of an effort to hunt.

Lysanthir drank his tea. They remained lost in their own thoughts for a while, surrounded by the morning murmur of the kitchen. 

“Did he say where he was going?” Out of the blue, Ifan asked, faking uninterest, but the question had been eating him away since Lysanthir told him.

“Somewhere close to the forest.”

“Ah.” Ifan sighed, relieved for a moment. Since they had cleaned the forest, the local elves gave them a house close to the entrance of the desert of Mezd as a gift for such titanic efforts. Ifan had fantasied to spend the last years of his life -- if he ever became older -- in that place, with Sandor, enjoying the forest, the elven neighbourhood, the memories of that time when he had been innocently happy.

Well, it seemed that the arsehole of Sandor was going to keep studying _ that _ blasted thing in _ that _ house. Without even asking him. Close to the recovered lands of the elves. Ifan clenched his teeth. He was going to knock him off for once. 

Those were not good news exactly. He could not be calm about it, knowing that such a crazy thing popping out from the mirror could attack Sandor, alone. And then it would get free to roam around the forest, attacking for the second time his people. Ifan sighed long and deep, exhausted by Sandor's stupid tenacity. It was in moments like these that he kept wondering what truly made him fall for him. But then he felt a warmth in his mouth, and carefully, he touched the mark on his lip. It had been so many weeks since the last time he kissed him.

“I was planning to send some spies of DeSelby, to keep an eye on him. Are you fine with that?” Lysanthir said. 

“Yeah. Good call.” He whispered then, “He is such a pain in the ass.”

Lysanthir chuckled, looking at the ceiling as if he were enjoying a mental image, even though the mood was not exactly the best one for any kind of jokes. Then took another sip of his tea. 

With his eyes focused on his mug, Ifan spoke softly, “Tell me, those potions... is that true? The potions we have been using to avoid the fading Source?” He scoffed, “Can they be made of _ Deathfog _?”

Lysanthir shrugged. “I don't know. They are working and, so far, they didn’t kill us.”

“You are a scholar too. You should know what they are made of.”

“I _ was. _ I'm retired from books. Now I fight, remember?”

“I-I... I don't know if this is another lie or... Do you know some good uses of _ Deathfog _?”

“Not that I know. But as I said, I'm a retired scholar....”

“Could... maybe... What if... I never heard of good uses of _ Deathfog _... but..” Ifan rubbed his face, confused in a deep mist of desires for trusting in Sandor while still being hurt by his lies. He looked at Lysanthir, his doubts transparent on his face. Had it been wise to let his rage run free on Sandor?

Lysanthir patted his back. “Just let's wait for the situation to calm down, and when I have some free time I will look into it. Okay? You got a point, Ifan. The _ Deathfog _ was _ there _ , and we _ didn't _ know it. _ That _ was not right.”

Ifan closed his eyes and nodded. Yes, it was not right.

* * *

Lysanthir entered the academy and crossed those well-known corridors. The place did not change a bit, the absence of the Mestre for a whole week did not affect the Academy activities. 

He knocked on the open door of Sandor's studio, and, of course, the Mestre was not there. He found that old elf, the current most famous healer at the moment, opening a drawer of Sandor's desk. 

The man looked at Lysanthir by the corner of his eyes, and pretended to be seeking something else carelessly. He opened the other drawer and took a book, moving quickly its pages. When he closed it, he pretended to be surprised at the sight of Lysanthir. 

“Good day, Sir.” Nyw said. 

Lysanthir smirked, a courtesy gesture with a knowing look. “Good day. Something lost?”

“I was looking for a recipe made by the Mestre. He is not here to ask him personally, and I need it.”

“Recipe for?”

“A potion for a monk. Maybe I should ask Lord Arhu.”

Nyw did not add anything else, and after a short nod, he left the studio. Lysanthir followed the old elf with his eyes until he crossed the door. Then, he looked at the other two scholars present in the studio. Tarquin was working in some of his pyramids while Infirma was gathering his alchemy kits and placing them in a box. 

Lysanthir frowned at her. “Are you leaving?”

“It's the healthiest decision. Did you see how the commander became mad? I can't work in a place where a crazy man can kill me just because he doesn't like my potions. Believe me, I’ve been there before, and it was awful. Besides... I’m not of much use without being able to use..._ certain compounds _.”

Lysanthir scratched his head. “I know. But you all were reckless. You got that _ thing _without asking us. Guardians protect people, and we were not aware of such danger inside the city. You were putting Arx at risk.”

“Risk?” Infirma frowned. She walked to the elf, the height difference turning enormous as she approached him, and grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward the corner where the _ Deathfog _ tank used to be. She pushed him inside the transparent box where it was stored. “Let’s test something. Cast some mist or water spell. Something that can spill or expand.” She said. 

Curious, Lysanthir tried a mist that activated something in the box, locking him up immediately. He ended up trapped in that crystal box. He asked to be released, but before the lack of reaction in Infirma, he started to worry. He hit the box's walls with his fists at first. Infirma laughed, shaking her head, while observing him as if he were a guinea pig. Desperate, Lysanthir cast more spell against the damn crystal, but everything magic-related was useless. Then, he took his axes and hit the crystal, expecting to explode it in shards, but it was unbreakable. 

“You see... this is where we put the tank. It's an enchanted box. Anything that spills inside, would be trapped, and you can't destroy this box easily as you can see by yourself. The only place that allows any spilling is there, in the small device you see here,” She pointed out the bottom of the structure where the mouth of the tank used to be placed. It was surrounded by another transparent box with a tap.

She wrote a rune on the crystal to open the capsule again, allowing Lysanthir to go out of it. “As you can see, not even a person who wanted to sabotage the tank could do it. It was the condition that the Mestre put me to bring _ Deathfog _. He wanted something extremely safe, and I agreed with him. So we used a lot of resources to craft this security box, now useless. We want to experiment with dangerous things, to explore what we don't know, but nobody wants to die in the process. Kind of. Well, at least, make sure we are the only ones dying, if so.”

Lysanthir breathed out while stepping outside the crystal cage, relaxing his strained back. “Fine, got your point.” 

Having heard all their conversation, Tarquin approached them. “I think the reaction of the commander was a bit... excessive? don't you agree?”

Lysanthir shrugged at the human. “Whatever. I’ve come here to know some truths.”

“The Mestre gave the commander all the truths already, and I only witnessed a crazy man listening to none,” Infirma added, folded arms. 

“I know. I know. The commander... was a bit overwhelmed by the _ Deathfog _ . Please, it’s _ Deathfog _, it’s not like we are talking about caramel. You know History.” Lysanthir said.

“You are the elf, but he is the one losing his mind?” She added.

Lysanthir tilted his head, not in the mood for explanations, “Anyways. How you can extract something good from the _ Deathfog _?”

“Easy. You need to use a felaxina to neutralise the dangerous active enzyme in it. Once you do it, it turns a little purple, and you can be sure that it will not kill you. It can burn you, but not kill you anymore. That's the main compound we need for all the advances we have made. _ Useless _advances now.” She insisted on using the same word, stressing it in a particular obvious way. 

“Why didn't you bring a tank full of that deactivated liquid?”

“Because it's unstable. It turns into water quickly. You need to work with it almost in the moment you have just deactivated the deadly compound. It gets oxidised in five minutes. That's the reason why the potions we have been providing to the Guardians, same as the ones used on silent monks, have to be done in the same moment. We can't make them in a massive way and stock them. It's a waste.”

Lysanthir nodded in silence. 

“Do you know the whereabouts of the Mestre?” Tarquin asked, gently. 

“We are watching him. He is in the forest, North from here.” He looked at the crystal box, and twitched his lips, “So... no more potions for the fading Source while not _ Deathfog _ here?”

Both scholars nodded in silence.

He scratched his head, annoyed. “What a mess... so, _ Deathfog _ can have benefits uses. Wow. Damn it.”

“The first rule in alchemy is this: everything can be poisoning or healing, it just depends on the doses. And so far, it still applies even on the _ Deathfog _.”

Lysanthir looked at her, a bit worried. Now he remembered why he had left being a scholar so many centuries ago.

* * *

“What's happening?” Ifan said, wiping out the sweat from his forehead while walking into the council room. He had been in the training field when an unusual movement of people going and coming through the corridors caught his attention. Seeing a group of elves in the middle of the fuss forced him to head to the main room.

Dejected, Lysanthir looked down, allowing the recently arrived delegation of elves to speak. 

One of the recently arrived elves stepped forward and spoke to the commander. “Sir, Saheila sends us as soon as she knows of this. The Lizards are attacking the North. They take the Deserts of Mezd (*), and they bomb the forest bordering its mountains.”

Ifan frowned and looked at DeSelby. “But weren't they in the NorthWest days ago?” 

“They were. My Sources are trustworthy. They had to spend around 4 month to reach the desert of Mezd from that point. How- how could they do it so fast?” She said, as surprised as everyone. 

“What if they have flying machines?” Lysanthir was still looking down when he spoke. 

Ifan blinked. “Are... are you saying...”

“We are developing flying machines, right?” Lysanthir said, as he raised his sad eyes. “And we have been accepting so many refugees without even asking.” 

“What you are implying is impossible. I have spies everywhere, working for me. I would have been warned if there were some suspicious behaviour” DeSelby said crossing her arms over her chest.

“It was also impossible to have these guys now in the Desert of Mezd when days ago they were North Aleroth.” 

Ifan frowned, “But we don't have any Ancient Empire spy, how the hell would they disguise now? Any spotted Lizard would be arrested immediately with the extended ban. Unless… unless they have non-Lizard allies... .”

The silence in the room became suffocating. Ifan sighed, putting that disturbing thought aside for a moment, “The recovered forests… how extensive their damage has been?” he said looking at one of the elves.

“Not much yet. It is the East side of the forest, close to the entrance of the desert.” Another elf of the delegation said. 

Ifan sat on a chair, as his legs failed and a dark hunch twitched his guts. He could not stop thinking about Sandor. “We need to go there, and seek for survivors, and see if we can patch that part of the forest again, and-”

The elf stopped his words, “The bombs, Sir, are made of _ Deathfog _.”

Ifan went pale, speechless. 

“We can contain the spread of the _ Deathfog _, cleaning as much as we can to avoid its expansion, but, what is killed... well...”

“Did you find some... people dead? In the zone, I mean...”

“Yes, Sir. It seems a group of humans and dwarves have a hideout in a house when the bombing start.”

Ifan's eyes become wetter, “What have you done with those corpses?”

“We leave them there. They are not elves. That’s why we come here to inform you. To dispose of them, and to be warned of how the Lizards are moving.”

Jumping from his chair, Ifan ordered some soldiers to bring him some anti-_ deathfog _ gear and prepare a horse for him. He looked at DeSelby and told her to host the elven delegation. He was leaving right there. 

“You can't just leave.” Lysanthir said, annoyed, catching Ifan's arm in the corridor. “What if the Lizard are coming South now? What if we have to face them...”

“You'll do just fine.” Ifan said, releasing himself from the elf. Both quickly walked to the training field, where a Guardian had some horses prepared for Ifan to choose. He took one and mounted it. 

“You and DeSelby are in charge. You always were.” Ifan said. 

“Fuck you.” Lysanthir hit Ifan's thigh with his fist, softly enough not to harm him. “I won't let you leave just like that. You are going to do crazy things.”

And with a reluctant expression, Lysanthir took one of the remaining horses and followed Ifan. Both left Arx and headed to the North.

In a couple of days they reached the zone. The _ Deathfog _had been cleaned by the elves that had brought them the news, but the mark of that cursed fog was clearly there. The trees, dead yet standing, were dry and brittle, full of festering blisters on their barks. The grass was brown, consumed, and several dead birds were spread around, half festered, half bare bone.

“No.” Ifan said, his mouth slightly open in surprise. This view was reviving once again his recurrent nightmares. Sandor's efforts months ago had been completely wasted. 

Lysanthir looked around, annoyed by the pain of the trees that he could hear in whispers. “Where is the house?” He said, trying to keep focused on their task.

“North.”

Both shook the reins, and the horses rushed ahead. From the distance, the humble small house could be seen with the last beams of the evening sun. Desperate, Ifan dismounted with a clean leap and ran into the house. He held a sudden retching. 

Several bodies were spread on the ground, half melted by the Deathdfog, half decomposed. A pair of well known shackles with fancy designs of bird heads were there too, one far away from the other, as if the owner had dropped them while walking, taking his time in doing so. 

He felt the dread hitting his stomach. 

At a corner of the main room, he spotted the mirror; that blasted thing humming without emanating its usual purple miasma, and more bodies on the ground around it. There was a half of a human body too, cut by the waist in a perfect clean slay. The other part was nowhere to be found. Ifan closed his eyes, reaching the obvious conclusion. Something had attacked those humans. And it had been from the mirror. 

Lysanthir entered the place and pressed his nose. The view and the smell was really disgusting. He walked to the small window, to open it and let some fresh air come in, when he spotted another body, hidden behind the door. Curious, he closed it and only then, both of them were truly shocked. 

They saw a deformed corpse in a ragged robe of Barulik style. Ifan's heart stopped. He fell on his knees and crawled towards _ that thing _. The hair of that corpse had completely fallen, and blisters replaced it. Half of that person's face was a skull, bone exposed after the festered skin fell apart. The other half was melted as the result of that damned fog. Hesitant, Ifan's eyes focused on that corpse's neck. He tried to touch it, but Lysanthir grabbed his arm violently.

“You're bare hand.” He scowled gently, giving Ifan the _ anti-Deathfog _ gear. With extreme care, Ifan inspected the corpse's neck, separating every layer of cloth of those fancy robes from the falling apart tissues to discover a small chain melted partially with the skin. He did not want to pull it out, but he needed to know the truth. Hands shaking, as tears ran along his cheeks and his jaw trembled, he did it and saw the swaying ring at the end of the chain. Sandor's ring.

He broke the chain and looked inside the ring; last hope to deny the reality in front of him, expecting to be another ring, a similar one. But not _ that _ ring. It had a name in elvish. Ifan's name. Horrified, he pressed the ring in his clenched fist and screamed, bending on the ground. It could not be possible. It could not be real. 

Sandor's name was repeated several times, as Ifan's soul was ripped apart by the pain, and his eyes flashed in Source looking around with the vain hope of finding his spirit. Yet nothing was there. The dead and the living had abandoned that cursed place. He nailed his fingers in his own chest, the pain too deep to hold it, and pressed his forehead against the ground, crying. Source whirled around him, anger and frustration and pain. Afrit appeared by his side and howled in a long lament combined with Ifan's cry. 

Lysanthir knelt by Ifan's side and rubbed his back slowly. His friend's pain pierced his own chest.

* * *

“This is my fault. I pushed him to his death. I killed him.” Ifan whispered in front of the fire; a long pyre that Lysanthir had done to burn Sandor's remains. The night had fallen, and only some owl sounds and the cracking of the fire could be heard around.

Lysanthir could not stop staring at the pyre, at the deformed figure of that man turning into ashes. “It’s not your fault. This was... bad luck. Or, in any case, Lizard's fault.”

“I told him to leave. I... I should have destroyed that damn mirror. I should have stopped him somehow.” Ifan looked at the ring in his hand, then he rubbed his eyes, pressing his palm against them. “I should have asked him forgiveness. For the fallen, we _ fought. _ ” His voice was strangled, “We _ fought _ . The last thing we did... was... was to _ fight. _” Ifan said with a thread of voice.

Lysanthir looked at him and took the ring from Ifan's hands. The man was so overwhelmed by the grief that he did not notice the movement, or at least pretended not to care about it. The elf looked at the ring, reading the inscription carved inside. If it were not for the fact that there was a dead man in front of him, burning slowly in a pyre, he would have grinned, triumphant, knowing that his suspicion had always been correct. But now, he could not even smile. What terrible luck. He knew how deep this pain rooted in a soul, how it festered a person’s mind over time, how hollow that space was left after recovery. He had suffered this kind of loss several times along his long life. 

“Were you two... married?” He asked the obvious fact just because there was nothing to say that could fill the enormous emptiness left. Ifan only nodded in silence. “For how long?” Lysanthir played with the ring in his long fingers. 

“Months ago. When we cleaned this forest. But we had been together... for years. Even before putting a foot in Arx. ”

“Ah.” Lysanthir observed Ifan's profile and focused on his lower lip. Yes. The bond. That obvious mark that he always knew its meaning but never could find a way to force the truth out of Ifan. And now he was feeling sick to listen to it in these circumstances. He had planned to make a joke of all that ridiculous pretence that the couple had been performing for so long. Now, he could not even think about it.

“Why hiding it?” Lysanthir said.

“Sanguinia.” 

Lysanthir looked at the dark sky through the canopy of dead trees, all brittle leaves and infested branches, illuminated with the dancing reds and yellows of the pyre. He understood quite well why something so good had to be hidden so deeply. After all, he had been living among humans for centuries, he knew their diverse problematic personalities quite well. He looked at Ifan whose tears did not stop, while his sad green eyes kept lost in the flames of the pyre. It was hard to talk knowing that nothing could ease his pain.

“He loved Arx. It's true. He would have never put the city at risk; not willingly. Not deliberately.” Ifan added, not sure why, following an unknown chain of thoughts. His mind was not making much sense.

“But you had a point there. There was a _ Deathfog _ tank… in his studio.”

Ifan nodded. “Did you look for what I asked you? About the potions of _ Deathfog _?”

Lysanthir looked down. It was terrible to tell him _ that _ now. “What's the point of knowing it anyways?”

“You, from all people, know the value of a non stained memory.”

Lysanthir sighed loudly, “You right, Ifan… but this will be painful. But, at least... you will honour Sandor’s memory correctly. The potions... they are true. He was not doing any harm. And he had taken the needed measures to reduce the chances of accidents. But still, you had a point. There was a _ Deathfog _ tank in the city. And we didn't know about it.....”

Ifan let the silence sink in for a long while.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He muttered, his voice strangled by the knot in his throat. Unable to endure it, he curled over himself and broke again in a heartbreaking cry while Lysanthir approached him, hugging him gently. 

When the fire extinguished and only ashes remained, Ifan gathered them all and wrapped them in a piece of fabric. Then, they headed to Arx. Close to the city entrance, they turned aside into the forest, riding towards a clearing where Ifan, Fane, and Sandor had found one of those rare monoliths for the first time.

Keeping silent, as if it were part of a ritual, Ifan squatted close to the pillar and cast Source to crack open the ground, forming a squared hole where he placed Sandor's remains. It was a fitting place, he thought, a calm one proper of a wizard. Maybe too lonely for Sandor in particular, but death was always a solitary experience. Sandor always wanted to live in a cottage, in the middle of the forest, enjoying a calm life. Now he was going to do that in death. 

With another movement full of Source, Ifan moved the ground and finally buried the ashes. A tablet made of rock rose over the mound to mark the tomb. With a dagger infused in Source, Ifan finished the sacred place carving Sandor's full name on it. This was the end of Sandor Das Balurik's story. 

He could not stop remembering Nueleth and the pain close to madness he had endured due to her loss. The despair of finding himself with his own life alone once again, without soft arms where to find shelter, without that penetrating scent of home-made bread close to warm skin, without those sad brown eyes. He felt so lost in his life once again. He had to start over again. But this time, he was not sure if he could.

Damn cursed moon.

* * *

During the next few days in Arx Ifan was nowhere to be found. 

As they usually proceeded when the commander was outside, Lysanthir and DeSelby took in their hands all responsibilities over the city. One of the main ones, maybe the hardest, was to inform the tragedy. As a wizard fellow, they considered that Arhu had to be the first one in knowing about Sandor's fate. 

The news took him by surprise. Arhu remained observing DeSelby as if she were speaking in an incomprehensible language. After a long moment, he sighed in a resigned relief and finally displayed another reaction beside that sad shock. Arhu had learnt in his own long life not to get fond of short lifespan creatures, but Sandor's sharpness had always amazed him. Not only for his Balurik tongue but also for that strange ability to defy cycles, to break them. Now that Divinity had disappeared forever, the world appeared in front of Arhu a bit less boring, and more interesting to live in. It was such a pity to lose so early the person who had done such a change. Wizards were always strange creatures in every species, but in humans, they had the most erratic and wonderful characteristics.

Forced by the events, guilty in some way, Infirma asked for permission to go and check that lost shack in the forest, since she was leaving the city anyways. Without being explicit, it was obvious that she was hoping to find the mirror in that cottage and continue the work that Sandor had given his life for. Unsure of it, Lysanthir took a couple of days before answering her petition. He tried to find Ifan first; after all, the commander was the owner of that house and the only one to grant that permission. But Ifan's absence forced him to decide it by himself. Considering he was going to honour Sandor’s memory, he allowed Infirma to continue his work, but under the condition of doing it outside the city. The tragedy was still fresh, and he was not sure he wanted to bring back such a dangerous mirror to Arx. It was the best solution. Losing an asset that Sandor protected with his life could be a big mistake in the long term; his intuition was telling him to be cautious on the matter. Especially if they were going to face the Lizards in a war soon. In their secret arrangement, they agreed to frequently keep providing some potions against the fading Source to the barracks. A fair deal for both. 

Although she was not explicit about it, Lysanthir could infer that Infirma was going to continue her experiments on the mirror, probably inside that shack. He did not care, as long as her entrance to the city could always be done free of any dangerous substance. 

The third person in being informed about Sandor’s death was Tarquin, whose reaction was completely unexpected for Lysanthir. Although the necromancer showed no pity or sadness when he received the news, everyone noticed a change in him days later. He had become taciturn -- more than usual-- reaching sometimes an unexpected level of sadness. According to Arhu, he started spending more time in Sandor’s studio, reading his reports and studying Das Vapour's notes. He wanted to finish all the research related to Source that Sandor had left inconclusive; probably the greatest gesture of respect between scholars. But it seemed that it was not enough. After some weeks later, without even informing about it, Tarquin began to spend half of his time in the clinic.

At first Lysanthir was worried. To have a necromancer around ill people sounded like a bad idea, but considering that the patients did not die more frequently than before, and everyone respected Tarquin's skills as an average healer, the idea became more appealing. Healers were always welcomed, even those with non-outstanding skills. 

It was strange to see Tarquin eager to help, whether with his mediocre magic or with his wide knowledge of potions and herbs. Strange did not always mean bad. So Lysanthir left him be. He assumed that, in a short time, Nyw and Tarquin could fill the empty hole left by Sandor in the clinic.

When three weeks passed by and nobody could find the commander, Lysanthir started to really worry about it. He ordered a group of rangers and explorers to check outside the city, deep into the forest nearby and at the hill of the range of mountains around. Although Ifan was accustomed to living in the forests, Voidwoken attacks had been turning more vicious lately. If Lysanthir was taking into account Ifan’s current state of mind, the possibility to be outnumbered by Void creatures and still yet engage into combat was not a whimsical fear. The Silver Claw had always been well known as a reckless man who tended to show his own bravado in the most dangerous situations. Not because the Silver Claw had to prove anything, it was more like a personality mark proper of his style which had a degree of disdain for death. Or maybe it was just a mark denoting how low he used to care about his own fate. In any case, Lysanthir was counting on this rescue group to find Ifan before he could head into an unnecessary risk. 

Worried about the lack of news while missing Ifan deeply, Lysanthir entered the commander's chamber. He sat on the bed and looked around, savouring the lingering scent of herbs that were still present in it. It was Ifan’s scent. On the bedside table, there were two books covered with dust. One of healing magic--a handbook that scholars tended to use in order to refresh old spells--and another of a young romance novel from a quite cheesy author. Both books were clearly of no interest to Ifan. He smiled. Of course, they were Sandor's. 

The thought made him frown. How could the wizard have slept in the barracks when nobody had ever spotted him in the evening? Not even once. At that moment, he felt it. Source. A small amount of magic that could be unperceived by most. It was circulating along the room walls like a morning breeze, running under floor, swirling around a single point, converging to the library at a corner of the chamber. 

He inspected the shelves closer, and pulled a book which activated a rusty mechanism inside the walls. Sounds of gears and chains could be heard, muffled, as the library shelves moved like a door revealing an opening. It was then when a whirlwind of Source hit him. It was harmless but it had a purpose: to stop anyone who dared enter. It was a clear warning of a Source-based defence system which would show no mercy to any intruder. Despite not passing through it, he immediately suspected where that corridor ended. He left the barracks, and went exactly to the only place he had not checked yet.

Lysanthir tried to open the wizard's house door but it was useless. There was a protection spell on it, and even though that kind of magic falters enormously once its caster is dead, this one was far from being weak. He tried several times to open it in vain. He frowned, frustrated. Damn Sandor and his odd powers. Using more Source from what he wanted to, he could finally bust the door. 

The whole house was in penumbra, and a thick sweet fog filled every room. It was drudanae. Afraid of what he was going to find in the bedroom, Lysanthir knocked several times on its frame before stepping in. And then he finally saw him. A wretched man, bare-feet, laid on the bed with a Balurik robe in one hand, and a drudanae pipe in the other. The last sunbeams of the evening that entered through the window barely illuminated the room, making the floating dust of the room and the long strips of smoke stand out from the dark background. 

Ifan looked at him for a moment, his eyes bright as if he were expecting someone else, and then, full of frustration, turned his head and kept smoking in silence. Nothing could be said.

“I was deadly worried about you. I sent a group of rangers to check around the nearby forests.”

No words came from Ifan. He kept blowing smoke.

“I thought you left us for good. Or something worse.” 

Ifan forced a fake chuckle. 

Lysanthir sighed approaching the bed. He sat on its edge and rested his elbows on his own knees, unable to do anything else. It was hard to handle the dark emptiness growing in Ifan's heart. He knew about it first hand. 

“Have you been eating lately?” Lysanthir said. More silence came as an answer. “I get that you need your space and time to mourn but remember we are living tough times. We need our commander.” Both looked at each other. “Besides, I hope you remember that, despite everything, you can count on me.”

With the tiredness of a soldier who had fought too many wars, Ifan smiled at him. A forced smile that tried to show his understanding yet, he could not manage to make it more genuine.

“You are a good friend, Lysanthir. Thank you. I just need time. And think. And cry. A lot.”

“I understand.” Lysanthir placed his hand on Ifan's shoulder, squeezing it at first, and then, softer, running a finger along his neck to the contour of Ifan's jaw. He sighed, breaking the contact, and looked aside. 

They remained like that for a long while, the soft puff of drudanae as the only sound filling the room. Then, out of the blue, perhaps looking for some relief, or maybe just as an effect of the strong hint, Ifan spoke softly. 

“I've been remembering when I lost Nueleth.”

“How was it?” 

“Nasty. I was South Ataraxia (*), fighting the Black Ring. There was a huge base there that we destroyed after three days of fighting. It was awful. A quarter of my regiment died. But at least, we had defeated the Black Ring in that part of Rivellon. Or that was what we thought. I remember the moment. Great Paladin Hardwin appeared in our camp, bleeding. He told us that he had been sent to help Nueleth's group, but the Black Ring had attacked before he could reach the Holy Mountain.” Ifan took a long puff and continued, “She died because she was a good paladin. If she had retreated when she saw her group outnumbered.... If she had lured the Black Ring to the South, to the desert of Mezd, or... I don't know, any other strategy, she would have survived. But she wanted to protect the town. And everyone was massacred with the bombs. Black Ring had no mercy. They left a long crack at the feet of the mountain. The news of her death... were tough to handle. You knew her.” 

Lysanthir gently smiled at the fresh memory in his mind. 

Ifan continued, “She always left an imprint on those she met. From having her in your life to never seeing her again... was a lot to take. But somehow, maybe because we were soldiers, we knew this was always a possible outcome. Since the first day we... started our relationship, we knew that one of us could die in any mission. That's why we used to have a goodbye ritual. Every time we headed to a quest, we shared our goodbyes as if they were the last ones. It was a good thing. It kept us very conscious of what we had, of what we felt, how...” Ifan swallowed, his throat strangled, “... how much we loved each other. Losing her was a nightmare, but it was one that she helped me to deal with much better than I could have done on my own thanks to those habits. She was the one of the idea.”

“She was always several steps ahead.” Lysanthir said.

Both smiled, at the warm memory of the elven woman. 

“Yes. She was... wonderful.” Ifan's eyes darkened and fell to some distant point, lost in the wall. A tear ran away, “But... with Sandor... none of that was done. Truth be told, we did everything wrong. After surviving war, I think I lost the notion of what true safety means. I thought this life we were having in Arx was the safest one I could ask for, considering all the Voidwoken mess.” Ifan sighed and rubbed his eyes, more tears fell along his cheeks. “I can't stop thinking over and over the scene in the academy. The way I treated him. Why?”

Lysanthir slid a hand to Ifan's shoulder and patted him. “He was not mad at you.” 

Ifan moved his arms and frowned at him. His voice came out with a despondent tone. “What do you know, Lysanthir?”

“I was the last one who talked to him. You know. I was patrolling the entrance.” He stopped patting and squeezed Ifan's shoulder while looking at the ground. “He was sad, but I know by the way he spoke that he knew that you, eventually, would allow his crazy mirror back to Arx. He just did that to win some time to convince you. You know how cunning he is when he wants.” He scoffed, a half smile that disappeared too soon, “...was.”

“Don't pity me. Don't lie to me. No need.”

“I'm not.”

Ifan locked his eyes on him, and Lysanthir twisted his lips to the side. Yes, maybe he was saying that just to make him feel better. He could only remember a neutral scholar saying he was going to leave the city, and barely hinting that, from that moment on, he was going to live in a cottage close to the forest. But what was the point in encouraging that mental torture that Ifan was performing? 

Lysanthir sighed and shook his head, “Well, it doesn't matter. We still need to do things. Take your time if you need, but just promise me you'll eat and call me if you need a friend.” 

“I'll do it.”

“Promise me.”

“I- I promise. And don't worry. _ I'll live. I always do. _”

Not completely convinced, Lysanthir stood up from the bed and left the room, hearing the peaceful blow of the smoke. And then, out of the blue, almost in a whisper, a song that he had heard so many times during the ages of War filled the air. A song that Ifan seemed to know by heart. 

_ I shall not mourn 'til war is done  
_ _ I shall not weep while blood still runs  
_ _ I'll hold my tears when weeping comes  
_ _ And I'll avenge my darling ones. _

_ I shall not fear what's dead and gone  
_ _ I'll fight to win the war to come  
_ _ If all the world were made of gold _ _  
_ _ It would mean naught while you lie cold. [*] _

For two months, nobody but Lysanthir knew about Ifan's whereabouts. 

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

[*]Song you can hear in-game being sang by Paladins in Paladin Bridgehead.

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Dhaleram:** [Headcanon] It means "weak honour" in Elvish. It is a label that describes non-elves who passed the ritual that allows them to have the closest ability to gain memories. They require an advanced knowledge of Elvish language, the elf who will be honoured alive, and a certain degree of intimacy that can vary depending on the kind of memory that such elf wants to give. Sometimes, Dhalerams can keep the memories fresh by an obsessive compulsion of remembering them daily, fighting against the natural loss of memories that their biology entails. The ritual leaves the Dhaleram prone to demon possession or mind control, worsening this condition each time they honour an elf.

**Deserts of Mezd**: [Rivellon, canon] Deserts placed at the North of Rivellon. [ [ See map ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570#workskin).]

**Ataraxia**: [Rivellon, canon] West of the desert of Mezd and North of Arx. [[See map](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570#workskin).]

  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

Two months after the Mestre's death, Arhu decided to commemorate the event with a simple ceremony and the display of a humble monument in the academy entrance. The sculpture was only a set of cement pillars holding Sandor's staff. It was not a pompous or exuberant structure, but magical. During night, the top of the staff would gently glow with the remnants of Sandor’s Source. He had been so powerful that not even death demeaned the magic he had infused in the objects of his daily life. 

Most people who had been healed by him — and their minds were not yet poisoned by Kemm's words— brought some flowers at the feet of the sculpture while others showed respect with a small bow in front of it, thankful towards the wizard who had saved the town against a Void dragon once. 

This event gave Ifan a good excuse to finally break his isolation, coming out from his lair and, possibly, returning to his duties. His recruits were, at first, eager to meet him again after such a long absence. Lysanthir had previously warned them that their commander was dealing not so well with his _ friend's _ death. That would have meant nothing if the mourning had lasted a few days. But the longer it took for Ifan to return to his normal life, the wider a new rumour in the barracks spread. 

It was a rumour that Lysanthir tried to stop at first but his efforts ended up being useless. Somehow, the rest of the Guardians started to put together the small details of the past, and the conclusion became obvious. When Ifan finally returned from the shadows, the rumour had already reached the city: the commander had always been deeply involved with the late wizard. 

The few sceptics left confirmed the rumour by a single inspection of Ifan's sorry sight. Ifan's usually straight and proud demeanour was now a bit slouched. He had lost weight too. His past green eyes had now a sad opaque colour, and dark circles under them spoke of long sleepless nights. 

Ifan attended the ceremony a bit high. He probably had taken a light hint to deal with the moment. It was something that nobody but Lysanthir could guess so far. After all, the elf was the only one who knew about Ifan’s habits to survive the loss. 

Absent minded, Ifan witnessed the endless procession of people leaving flowers at that monument's feet or bowing before it, until Sanguinia and Paulina approached him. Lysanthir had tried to keep those two old ladies far away from the wounded wolf, but they had found a way to overpass his measures anyways. 

For a fraction of a second, Ifan's and Sanguinia's eyes met, but he had neither the strength nor the interest to defy her, so he simply averted them immediately. He focused on the monument again, trying to be as explicit as possible about his pain and his lack of interest in talking. But of course, that loan shark was not going to give him a moment of respire, especially after two months of absence. She approached him to stand by his side, watching people give their respects to that monument. 

“I didn't see you working these months.” She was resting her weight on her cane.

“I've been busy.”

“On?”

Ifan did not answer. 

“There is quite a curious rumour around...” She added due to Ifan's silence, casually. Ifan rolled his eyes and avoided seeing her directly. “It's said that silence gives consent.” 

Ifan sighed and raised an eyebrow, reluctant to speak.

“So I guess.... it is true.” She added.

Ifan closed his eyes for a moment and, summoning patience out of nowhere, he turned to her. “Stop this fuckery. You and I, we both know you knew about everything a long time ago. You have your damn group of spies, most of the time working in useless tasks such as watching Sandor's ass instead of, for example, Lizard movements in the area. You know if any stupid rumour is true or is some shit you pull out from your own weird head.”

“So it was true... you and that _ promiscuous _man. Ugh, for the Fallen. Your taste is quite... disgraceful.”

Ifan frowned, closing his eyes tight. That had hurt. He sighed and forced his eyes to focus on the monument once again. He could not deal with more poison. “Shut up, Lady Tell, please. Just, shut up.” 

“Huh. I was wishing you... would deny it.” Sanguinia insisted, but that was all what she was going to get from Ifan. At least for the moment. 

The ceremony finished, and the people gathered around the academy entrance returned to their daily duties. Stubborn, Sanguinia remained by Ifan's side. 

“What a waste of resources.” Sanguinia approached the monument and hit it softly with her cane. It was made of a valuable stone that could be infused with Source to craft weapons. To see it there, just to form a pillar was a waste indeed. “All what that man built was a waste of money, that clinic and this stupid academy.”

Ifan sighed deeply. “That clinic healed thousands of people. And it still will continue healing.”

The woman clicked her tongue, “Don't talk to me like that. Now you are free of his spell. You have always been manipulated by him to convince me. He was, indeed, made of Balurik weave.” She looked at Arhu in the distance. The man was talking to some citizens. “At least your foolery with that filthy man has ended. Now you can focus on that one. One wizard less is a lot of less problems.”

A Source vein appeared along Ifan's neck. He looked at her, pupils contracted, as a predator ready to attack. “Don't fucking speak like that. I've lost an important person in my life. Show some damned respect. Respect Sandor’s memory.”

“I won't give my respect to those who have been hurting us for so long. You have just said it. I know what rumour is true from what it is not. And I know wizards drain our energy. Mark my words.”

Ifan turned on his heels and tossed his arm in the air, “I'm done for today,” and walked away. If he remained there a second longer, he was going to kill her. 

While he returned to the barracks, planning to finally retake his routine, he could faintly hear Paulina Kemm’s voice close to Sandor's monument. She was only thanking Sandor's death and guaranteeing that the problem of the fading Source was going to be reduced from that moment on. 

* * *

Half a year had passed since Sandor's death, and his deepest fear was finally materialised. 

For weeks he had been trying to accept the unavoidable fact, but there was also a childish desire deep down his mind that wanted to believe in some kind of magic able to prevent it. That day, however, when he fell on the ground, and his dagger spun in the air and sank into the earth just inches far away from his face, he saw it. He saw the reflection of his lips on its clean blade. He saw the mark was gone.

That dagger's blade showed him the unbearable truth that nothing lasts forever. 

He tried to find comfort in the idea that Sandor’s mark had taken more time than Nueleht's to fade. As if it could make things different. Hers had been gone two months after her death, leaving on his shoulder nothing more than his old battle scars. 

Nothing lasts forever. Nothing lasts long, especially in times of war. Neither love, nor Source, nor optimism. 

He raised from the mud, wiped out the blood on his face, and unsheathed the extra sword pending from his belt. With a clean slash, he beheaded the creature that was whining on the ground, deadly wounded after fighting against him. It was one of those strange Gheists that started to appear more frequently in the surrounding of Arx. These creatures were owners of a wild and dangerous amount of Source, and had been lately attacking the main city's entrance with the clear intention of destroying its defence system.

He recovered the sword and the shield that had been thrown far away during the encounter and looked around. Several wounded Guardians close to Arx's entrance were helped by a wave of desperate healers. He looked up at the sky and wrinkled his nose. Gheists and Voidwoken were not only their problems.

Every day was becoming shorter than the previous one. Scholars assumed that the high presence of Voidwoken in this world was weakening the Veil. After all, those creatures needed to tear the fabric of the dimension to get into Rivellon. That was the reason why the former intense blue skies were now a darker blue mantle with small floating cracks, revealing a hint of the Void behind them. Those fissures were still small to let the God King pass through them, but it was only a matter of time. The world was becoming slowly into an inhospitable place where to live. 

“Are you okay?” A raspy voice came from his back. 

Ifan turned on his heels and sheathed his sword. “Yes. Nothing big.” He said, as he winced with the movement. He looked at his side, a deep claw wound along his abdomen was bleeding. 

Scowling him, the healer approached him, pressing the wound with her hand, even rubbing it as she cast Source to heal it. Ifan hissed with pain. That healer was the grumpy one who hated him for taking unnecessary risks all the time. Her healing touches were more painful than any fight against Voidwoken. Silent, Ifan looked aside, enduring the torturing touch, as she even nailed her fingers against his cut skin to make the pain worse. But before she could close it, her Source disappeared. Releasing a groan full of frustration, she looked at her hand, curving her fingers in an effort to produce Source, but there was nothing to do. Her Source was flickering. 

Ifan looked at her, knowing what was happening, and raised his eyes to the sky once again. The world was turning into a nightmare for everyone. 

The rest of the non-wounded Guardians cleaned the entrance. The bodies of the Voidwoken had also turned into a new problem. With the loss of their evanescent nature, their corpses remained for months, spreading an acrid fetid stench. For that reason, after every battle, Guardians had to burn everything in long and huge pyres in front of the city. The smell would last a few hours, and by the end of the day, the battle would be added as another one in a long list of successful defences. But it was only natural to think for how long that situation would last, since nothing lasts forever. 

With a hand pressing his side to reduce the bleeding, Ifan walked far away from Arx's entrance and into the small forest nearby. His steps were fast for a man still wounded, and his pace displayed deep worry. He wanted to make sure that nothing had happened to that sacred place. The place where the last broken fragments of his morale resided.

Moving some bushes apart from his path, Ifan reached the clearing of the forest where the strange monolith was gently humming; its crystal was floating at its top, trapping a small flame of Source inside it. He had been here, before the end of Divinity, with Fane and Sandor who had checked on the strange structure. Now, Sandor's grave lay besides it.

When Ifan was not locked up in Sandor's house, he spent his off-duty time there, sitting beside that gravestone, smoking drudanae while appreciating the dreadful message carried by the wind and the dark looming landscape through the sky. Only his Guardian duty could make him walk away from there. It was a place to commune; something his mind needed in order to mourn. Talking to the air, pretending that Sandor could hear him, despite the fact that there was no spirit around, gave him a little peace of mind.

Those quiet afternoons that represented his last shelter in a world falling apart had been threatened by the presence of the Voidwoken during the last months. After every attack to the city, he used to run there, to check the state of the grave and ensure that those damned creatures could not profane it. It was the last he could do for Sandor. The last, meaningful thing, at least.

He stood up in front of the monolith, fidgeting his amulet in his necklace, and looked at the gravestone, refreshing some of the many memories he wanted to honour in his flesh. Then, a soft voice reached his ears. 

“There you are.” 

It was Sebille's silky voice. He did not mind moving his head. She walked in front of him, arms akimbo. She was also dirty, Voidwoken ichor stain all over her outfit, and her amber eyes were focused on Ifan's stomach. She sighed.

Several months after Sandor's death, Sebille and Lohse arrived in Arx. The sad news bittered their mood; it was hard for them — especially for Sebille — to accept that loss. In memory of Sandor, Lohse offered a special show in the city, but Arx had survived Sandor's absence too well. Due to the ill-intended rumours spread by Paulina Kemm and the fragile memory that city people have, nobody cared much about the event, and it was more ignored than praised.

Lysanthir convinced both women to stay in Arx for a long while after the shows. It was not a whim, for him it was more than obvious that Ifan needed his friends around. Without arguing on the matter, they accommodated in the city by taking a small house as their home and joined their skills to the Guardians in particular ways.

Lohse kept the city's and the barracks' morale high with her concerts, which inspired everyone to endure the daily challenges that the Voidwoken offered. Worried by the Guardians' few numbers in comparison with the enemy, Sebille allowed them to use her unique skills into their fighting efforts, not as a Guardian but as '_ an associate _'; a friend of the commander that could be helpful here and there but always keeping clear her distance. She never wanted to follow orders again in her life.

Her offer was accepted with enthusiasm in the ranks. In the last month she had led several spy groups to the North, in order to investigate the Lizards movements. No one more fitting for the task than a former member of the House of the Shadows. For weeks she reported Lizard activity as a belligerent force expanding broadly on the North towards the East. But then, out of the blue, the following days became quiet and calm. Her reports turned out to be thinner, as if the Lizard forces were dead. Soon after this change of behaviour, she returned to Arx. 

Nobody was entirely sure if this was a strategy to attack the South at any moment, or some genuine inner conflicts erupted among the Lizards' rows, weakening their forces from the inside. Whether the case could be, the rumours of a new house arising were undeniable. It was obvious that knowing that detail, or the lack of further ones were the cause of such a wave of nervousness in the Guardian ranks. 

Sebille squinted at Ifan’s stomach, “You are bleeding, you should look for a healer.”

“I'm fine. This won't kill me, believe me.”

She sighed, standing by his side, and then looked down at the grave, ignoring the monolith. _ Sandor Das Balurik _. It was written in a messy way.

“You always run here... it's a dangerous habit.”

Ifan scoffed. “Because everywhere else is _ so _ safe.”

Both chuckled.

Sebille walked away and took a flower growing in the grass. After a long silence, she dropped it at the feet of the gravestone. “I understand, but Voidwoken are becoming more vicious with the passing days.”

“It's just....” in a whisper, Ifan tried to choose the best words that could describe his emotions, but he found none, so he preferred to fill the clearing with silence. At least for a moment. His eyes turned teary, “I want to protect this place... it's all what is left of Sandor. I lost everything again. I want to keep this place at least.”

Sebille approached him and rubbed his back. 

“Well, I see it's fine. Let's go. We need to heal you, and then, continue with the council meeting.” Sebille added. 

Ifan nodded, and with a groan of pain, they started their way back. 

* * *

“What if you could bring someone back to life?” Melati (*) said. She was sitting in front of a campfire, looking at him with gentle old eyes. Her bark-skin had several wrinkles, and her hair, long and white, fell beyond her shoulders. 

“I don't know.” Ifan said, as a child, not older than twelve. He walked around her and hugged her, pressing his little chin against that bark shoulder. She hugged him back, wide circles drawn on his back with her palm. 

“Who would you bring back?” She whispered. 

The child, pulling apart, looked at her, hesitant. “My human parents. I would like to know them. And Nueleth. And you, mother. And Roost… despite, well. I, I... Sandor.” 

With each name, his body changed, his beard grew, and his voice became deeper, regaining the image of the well known commander of the Guardians. Now knelt beside Melati, he raised his hand to his own neck and noticed the absence of all his necklaces. He frowned at his mother, confused.

Gently, she caressed his cheek now covered with his salt-and-pepper beard. “Recovering all that people you lost… That requires an enormous power. You should give something of great value in exchange. I wonder what it could be?”

Ifan looked aside, and took a knife from the back of his belt; it was an old weapon that had helped him to survive in the forest for years. “This, maybe?”

Melati laughed, as lively as she used to do, and closed Ifan's fingers around the knife blade, making him bleed. “This allows you to defend yourself. Maybe it's too much to offer. Why not something you must have inside?” Her index finger pressed Ifan's chest. He opened his mouth, as if he were going to speak, but then the whole moment went black.

Ifan awoke tired in his bed. He was confused about what day it was and where he was. He touched his necklaces--all of them were there--and looked around identifying the room as his own in the barracks. A sharp pain at his side made him move the blankets to see the bandages below his ribs. Soon, the memories came back; recalling the Voidwoken attack, the beheaded Gheist, the interruption in the middle of the council meeting. He observed his hands, still enjoying the lingering hard yet tender touch of his mother's bark-like fingers.

A dream. It had only been a dream. 

Shy, the door of his room opened slowly. From it, Lysanthir tilted his head and smiled with his usual sly gesture. “Oh, my, you are already up. No rest for the wicked.”

“Did I sleep for too long?”

Lysanthir shook his head. “Just one hour. Sebille brought you, the healers treated you, and while you were sleeping we got rid of the rest of the Voidwoken corpses. I came just to see if you were up to continue the Council. We can do it tomorrow...”

“No need.” Ifan sighed, and without complaints, he got up from the bed.

* * *

After a couple of hours, the council was immediately resumed by the commander. 

Sebille had brought a few new pieces of information about the suspicious inactivity of the Lizards in the North, while Engineer Sanders announced for the first time that a finished flying machine was ready to be used. It was half the size of the Lady Vengeance and was now functional in Arx's docks. Although it was not enough to evacuate the city in case of a swarm, it was a working prototype that would provide the knowledge to improve future models.

When they were going to congratulate the engineer for the news, several thunderous sounds outside the Council were heard. Everyone frowned in confusion, looking at each other. They had just finished the encounter with the Voidwoken and the damned Gheist hours ago.

“Voidwoken again?” DeSelby muttered as Ifan shrugged .

Some Guardians in the corridors screamed a '_ halt' _ and several bumps were followed by rushing steps. Whatever it was, it was coming to the Council room, and it was doing it without the slightest subtlety ever. 

The doors opened violently, and a wild yet refreshing wind rushed in, extinguishing most of the candles of the room. Everyone drew their weapons and Sanders hid himself under the table. Before them, a tall slender figure of an elf appeared at the doorstep.

“My, my. It has not been a decade since our last meeting and everyone has already forgotten me. This wounds me.” 

Ifan and Sebille sheathed their weapons and calmed down the rest. It was Malady. 

Proud and elegant, she walked to Ifan, smiling at him with her squinted eyes. “I thought my presence was going to be required only after a millennia.” 

Then, she observed everyone, taking her time with each of them. She returned her attention to Ifan, who had a deep frown full on his face. 

“I know, I know. I gave you all a farewell, expecting to never see you again... but here I am, suffering this as much as you.” She added, surveying the room once more; she was looking for someone. 

“Yes. I thought your next mission was going to take place centuries ahead.” Ifan said. 

“It was. But… things have changed. Something has disturbed the natural flow of time. And... sadly, it has sped things up. Not exactly the most... _ beneficial _ outcome for us.” Malady's eyes fell on Tarquin, everyone following her line of sight. “It must have been you, mustn't it?”

“I've done nothing.” Tarquin crossed his arms and lifted his chin, proud. Then, averting his eyes, he thought for a moment. “Mhn. Change in the flow of time, you said? I may know the origin of it.”

Malady chuckled.“Ah, Why am I not surprised? So, tell me about this little troublesome cause that may have doomed us all.”

“It must have been the mirror. Arhu told us it was connected to another plain, and the sudden connection of dimensions tends to produce temporal singularities that, indeed, alter the flow of time. Maybe...”

“Mirror? Are you still working on it?” Malady's question fell in an ocean of silence. This curious unanimous behaviour caught her curiosity, “So? Are you or you aren't? Why has everyone's tongue been cut? Where is Sandor? Maybe he still can talk.”

She looked at Ifan whose look fell on the ground. “Where is he?”

“He is dead.” Sebille added. 

After an irritated sigh, Malady rolled her eyes, pressing the bridge of her nose while faintly shaking her head, “And I came here expecting to harvest his promise. Why do all Arx Mestres die before time? Ugh.”

“What did he promise you?” Ifan said. 

“_ Help _ . For whatever I need. And I need his Source and powers now: it's the least he can do considering how he wasted Divinity by giving that choice _ to you _.” She walked back and forth, folding her arms, “Why do humans always die in the most inconvenient times?” She looked at Ifan's face. It was washed in deep sadness, opaque to his usual enthusiastic self. Understanding the pain, and respecting it, Malady tilted her head and talked with a graver tone. “What did happen to him?”

“_ Deathfog. _” Ifan said. 

Malady blinked twice, “Did Rivellon not learn yet?”

“The Lizards are using _ Deathfog _. Sandor was in the North when they attacked nearby the forest. He was still working on that mirror.” Sebille added. Ifan had been explaining in detail the fateful event for too long, too many times, and he was tired of describing the story over and over. The repetition kept making his pain deeper. 

“Well. I wasn't expecting that news,” Malady glanced at Ifan once more, “I'm sorry,” then, she turned on her heels, “But there is no time for mourning. I need information. What exactly happened with that mirror?”

Taking their time, they explained the episode to Malady, filling her with details and answering her questions. After processing all that information, she rubbed her face and, once again, sighed loudly. Everything made sense now.

That black mirror had always been a door connecting their world with a sealed forgotten one. By changing its hidden coordinates, it could be used as a means of communication, like the Sallow Man(*) had done so far. But the link to the forgotten dimension was always there, ready to be activated at the slightest distraction. Sandor's Source had connected two different space-times for some seconds, time enough to give the coordinates of their dimension to the Child of Pandemonium(*).

The Child would have spent thousands of years exploring every world hidden in the bifurcations of time and space, giving Rivellon enough time to prepare a plan to receive him. But now, that precious time so vital for Malady, had been reduced to — if they were lucky — a couple of years.

According to Tarquin’s anomalous book, the Queen(*) had been the first Nadaer arriving in their plane of existence, tempted and deluded by demons that were consorting with the Empress Anatelle. The King (*) followed after, looking for his queen and forgetting his purpose along the way when Void corrupted his mind and ended up too focused on developing the empire of the Eternals. And now, the Child was coming, looking for his parents. Although Nadaers were beyond any good and evil moral, their nature was always corrupted by the dimensional passage and the demonic essences lingering in it, turning them into chaotic tempests that destroyed and consumed everything at their wake. Like the Queen and the King, the Child was not going to be different. 

In fact, he had jumped some space-times already. The movement of such an entity across the dimensions had not been missed by the other universes. It had altered the demonic realms as well; that was the reason why Malady came to this plane sooner than she expected.

“So, the demons are moving too?” Sebille asked just after Malady finished her short explanation of what had brought her to this realm.

“The demons are uneasy. This shift in the balance may become an opportunity for them to take over the world, so we should stay alert.”

“But we destroyed Adramalik.” Sebille insisted. 

“And do you think he is the only demon interested in this world?” Malady chuckled. “Besides, what's death for a demon? They are not mortals either. He will want to come back, and certainly not alone.”

“Then, Lohse is in danger?” 

“Hard to say. We can only stay sharp for the moment.” Malady walked to the table, and taking the main chair, she sat and crossed her legs, placing her chin in her own hand, delicately. She remained silent for a moment. “Terrible times are coming, at a scaring high speed. We need to prepare seven powers that can, at least, equal the Seven Ones we lost, and pray that it would suffice to replace a Divine.”

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Anatelle, Empress **[Headcanon]: Empress of Rivellon around 32000AR, descendant of Emperor Sigurd, mage, and demon lover. She consumed the Nadaer called The Lady of Entropy, also known as The Queen, and due to the demonic essence present in the Empress’ body, the Nadaer was corrupted and Anatelle lost her sanity. This event seems to be the starting point of a Great War which wiped out Rivellon History from any book, leaving only unanswered questions.

**Child of Pandemonium** [Headcanon]: Read [ Nadaer I ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) (concepts on Ch 4) and Nadaer II (below).

**Queen (of Pandemonium) or Lady of Entropy** [Headcanon]: Mother of the Child of Pandemonium. Read [ Nadaer I ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) (concepts on Ch 4) and Nadaer II (below).

**King (of Pandemonium)** [Headcanon]: Father of the Child of Pandemonium. Read [ Nadaer I ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) (concepts on Ch 4) and Nadaer II (below). He is a Nadaer who left his plane of existence to look for the Lady of Entropy. He was affected by the Void and turned into the God King, forgetting his initial quest. He was the creator of the Eternals.

**Mother Melati **[Canon]: Elven mother of Ifan.

**Sallow Man** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-the-nameless-isle/#3555)]: Void-corrupted elf that asks for Alexandar’s head in the Nameless Isle during the game. It was the leader of the Black Ring in DOS2.

**Sigurd, Emperor ** [ [ Lore in general, Divinity: Dragon Commander ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Lore) ]: Sigurd was the first Emperor of Rivellon and father of the protagonist in _ Divinity: Dragon Commander _. He conquered the whole world with giant silver machines and set peace in Rivellon for 30 years. He was also a friend of Maxos who was his counselor and helped him during the war.

  
**CONCEPTS**

**Nadaer II:** [Headcanon]. Creatures from another plane of existence, the main responsible for the creation of Eternals. I crafted this concept to use them as an excuse to explain, first, why Malady needed the Divine’s promise in DOS2: because she has been waiting for the Child’s arrival. And second, I wanted to explain why Rivellon has serious History holes: I know, the true reason? Larian's lore mess. 

I wanted to answer questions such as: why does the God King seem to be an Eternal so unique and different to the others? Why does everyone respect him if he is another Eternal like the Seven? Who did craft the Eternals when nobody knew about them in DOS1? and why has Astarte no mention in DOS2, when in DOS1 she was the goddess of life and Source? With the Nadaers, I could answer those questions more or less consistently. Besides, in DOS1 it was hinted that "_ Source came from another plane, where creation could be allowed, while the Void spread to dimensions where everything was consumed _”. I applied this canon concept to the Nadaers, turning them into creatures that can create life but end up being entities of insane consumption when they are corrupted by the Void or by demonic essences. Forgive me if all this is an extra mess to the already messy lore, but blame Larian XD. I do what I can to fill the enormous gaps, holes, and massive black holes that this lore has.

**¿Why didn't you use Damian as the main danger in this fic instead of Nadaer? **First, because I needed the Nadaer to answer the questions explained above. With the Nadaer, Malady’s main quest (why she needed the promise of help of a Divine) and the origin of Astarte and the God King are all tied (Both are Nadaer. Astarte was never corrupted). 

Second, Damian could have been a natural choice, but he has always been known in Divinity Lore; why would Malady not say his name if he was truly the danger she was expecting to come? I didn't forget about him, but I wanted to keep him in Nemesis, doing stuff we don't know about, because it's not the time for him to rise yet [and who knows, maybe I could use him if Fallen Heroes is released, making a second series in this fandom]. 

And third, he will be the main enemy in Divinity II, which is the "future" [in another timeline] of DOS2; he was destined to be the enemy in the future, not now. Another reason why I didn't want to use him as the main danger in this fic. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.

Fane laughed long and loud as he received the news. “Please. Are you... are you telling me-” he burst out into another laugh, “-that a few of squashy mortals will replace...” He forced himself to stop, grunting in his throat as he contained the laughter, “...my people? The Seven?”

Malady, sitting on Arhu's desk, crossed her legs and rolled her eyes. 

She had established herself in Arx several days ago. She had picked the academy to turn it into her logistic centre, where she would gather all the Godwokens and part of the highest ranks of the Guardians so they would prepare for the incoming danger. The meeting took place in Arhu's chambers, in the presence of the old wizard who was sitting on his chair, hands folded while carefully listening to Malady's plan. Despite the grave situation, he could not erase his playful and sardonic smile on his face. 

Ifan, Lohse, and Sebille were closer to one another, in front of the desk; Tarquin was at a corner, leant against the wall. Fane, still laughing, was in the middle of the room, almost in front of Malady. 

“Gareth should be here to share his opinion.” Ifan said. 

“Ah, worry not, my dear wolfy Godwoken. I've already talked to him before coming to Arx, he knows everything. His Guardians are going to help us.”

“Well, so the plan is to gather people who are as powerful as Eternals? Do those exist beside the Godwoken?” Sebille asked. 

“That, my dears, is the idea. We better find them and pray their power is enough.”

“Where do we start?”

“To begin with… What's more equivalent to an Eternal in this world than a _ Wizard _?” Malady said.

Ifan's eyes lowered to the ground as he fidgeted his amulet. Then, he squinted at Fane. He respected the Eternal’s power, but after living so many years with Sandor, he could now put much hope in this skeleton. His knowledge could be the largest in all Rivellon, but in power he could not compare to _ him _ . Ifan knew this only by being close to Fane. His power did not make his hair stand on end, neither infused a looming danger on the back of his mind. Fane was powerful, sure. But not like Sandor. Then, Ifan looked at Arhu who was still displaying his sardonic smile. Now, that was another kind of power. A massive one under layers of a fake carelessness. Maybe _ that _ wizard was the closest replacement to one of the Seven Gone. 

“Pleaseee.” Fane snorted. 

Malady turned towards Arhu. Both of them kept an intense eye contact that ended with Arhu's sigh. “I'm not as powerful as you want to imagine me.” He finally said. 

Malady scoffed. “You are more powerful than anyone here in this room.”

“Are you sure? In this room, there is an Eternal who happens to be a wizard as well.” Fane added.

She stood up from the desk and walked towards Fane, looking at him up and down. “Considering we don't have Sandor anymore, maybe if you two combine your powers... you can emulate one of the Seven.”

Sebille and Lohse blinked, “Wait-” Lohse alone continued, “- are you saying that Sandor had so much power?”

“According to some sources,” Malady pointed Tarquin with a simple glimpse at him, “He had been performing quite interesting experiments on him to increase his own power. Maybe not as powerful as a Divine when he died, but the chances to acquire similar amounts were not... so unlikely. But, better don't cry over spilled milk.”

“Did you do what with Sandor?” Ifan frowned at Tarquin, surprised. 

The necromancer whispered, “He allowed me to. We were looking for answers. Scholar camaraderie you can call it.”

Unsure, Ifan raised an eyebrow and stared at him for a while. 

“It's not an easy task what you are asking, Malady.” Arhu said, his smile fading slowly. 

“We are going to face the most chaotic entity you can imagine. Nothing will be an easy task. Believe me.” 

Lohse raised her hand, catching everyone’s attention. “Can't you gather all the wizards in Rivellon?”

Malady chuckled. “No, my dear. I wish I could. Wizards… or better said, fully awoken and useful wizards are rare in this world. Most of them have succumbed to madness or their magic simply rot. The crazy ones are trapped in ancient cages, restrained and eternally in pain because they are more inclined to serve the God King than the living. There is a powerful wizard called Behrlihn (*). He has been in a magical prison for millennia, deep down the Orobas Fjords because he brought the Chaos Demon to this world. He is powerful, indeed, but not the kind that would help us.”

Arhu shivered as the thought of him. He had lived those troublesome times in his own skin.

“And the rotten ones?”

Malady shook her head, “They are useless. They lost their ability to use magic. Wasted talent.” 

“What about Zandalor (*)?” Lohse asked. “There is no epic song that would not mention him. He is powerful, and he knew other wizards, and-”

“He is lost.” Malady said. “I wish he could be among us. He could be a wonderful asset.”

“He may be lost, but he is not dead,” Arhu's words turned everyone's heads towards him. “He has been sleeping, gathering strength. The last battle against the Void Dragon exhausted him for ages.” 

Ifan chuckled, and felt a warmth spread on his chest. 

Arhu knew immediately what had crossed his mind. “No, my friend. That Void Dragon was a massive one, not like the one that attacked Arx. Against that dragon, three wizards and two Source hunters were needed to destroy it. It destroyed the dimension in which we faced it too. So… go figure its power.”

Sebille interrupted the explanation. She hated not to be focused on the present. “You know where this old wizard is? Where is he sleeping?”

“Not exactly, but I can try to find him. After all, he asked me to wake him up if the world was in danger. I can't imagine how much worse I should await things to get in order to do so, considering our current state.”

“That's all that we got? A bunch of wizards?” Ifan scratched his beard, looking at Malady's wicked eyes.

“Oh, no. I have more. But everything at its due time.” She said.

Ifan walked towards her and despite she towered over him, he crossed his arms and raised his chin. His gestures tinged with defiance. “No. You are going to tell us _ now _. Do you remember what happened during our last mission? All your secrets backfired because you didn't trust in us. This is not a demonic game of power. The world is at stake.”

Raising an eyebrow, Malady crossed her arms too, locking her eyes with his, fighting for dominance. “Ah. And is it _ my _ fault that a fool threw away the power of Divinity? It's _ my _ fault that now, wounded by his own lack of power, resents his helplessness knowing that Divinity could have prevented the death of his dear ones?”

“Easy there.” Ifan wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes. He hated to hear _ that _bare truth. 

Malady smirked. “I know what I do, not like others.”

“How can we trust in you? You fucking killed half of the Seekers to get us out of Fort Joy, you killed our companions when-”

“That was unfortunate, indeed, but I didn't _ kill _ them, it was more like a... collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage?! The fucking Void. And are you supposed to be different from Lucian?”, he buffed, incredulous of what he had just heard, “The annihilation of elves or the soul-less creatures left by the ‘cure’ of Source, are they also collateral damage? How can I trust in someone who will kill anyone who is expendable for her?”

“Well, you don't need to trust in me, if that works for you. But you don't have many options, my wild wolfy Godwoken.”

Ifan shook his head. “No. I _ have. _ I can give a damn thing about your plan.”

Malady laughed. “And what are you going to do? Run into these creatures, kill them with your Silver Claw skills?” She laughed louder, artificially and repeatedly; evil laughter resounding in the Council room until, with a last exhalation, she stopped it short. Then she smiled, the gesture frost on her face, and continued with a cold deeper voice, “Or maybe you are just planning to get killed sooner than later.” 

Ifan frowned, bare fangs appearing under his lips. 

“Don't think I didn't notice it.” She whispered in the end.

“I don't know what you are talking about.” Ifan said.

She huffed, serious, “Mn. Use your power to bring revenge on those who took from you what's precious. Use that anger to-”

Ifan drew back, squinting at her, “Stop that manipulative bullshit. I'm not going to fall again for that.”

“Ifan, this is serious.” Sebille said.

“So more reasons for her to speak every word.” He straightened his back, his green eyes, wild, defying Malady's amber ones.

Malady sighed loudly, staying in silence for a moment while looking at her nails. “Sebille is right. This is serious. So, stop this childish attitude.”

“It's not childish. Wasn't it enough to blindly drag us all along your mission last time? There were consequences, and people died. And nobody was aware of it.”

“You should do it for Sandor.” Malady's smooth voice tensed Ifan's body. “You know quite well he would have accepted it without blinking-”

“Shut up. What do you know? Don't fucking use him to drag me into your game.”

“I don't have time for lost hurt puppies. If you want to stay away, go ahead. Fight on your own. It seems you want to get rid of your life in a fancy way. Maybe looking brave or heroic. I don't need a wasted Godwoken. It’s a pity that, in your place, Sandor would have offered himself as a solution without hesitation. He would have died in order to help, in order to find a solution. In a sense, he did it with the wrong artefact, though. It's sad you don't appreciate his sacrifice.”

“What in the Void are you saying?” Ifan winced, his eyes teary and furious. “What a demon like you can know about sacrifices and pain and anything. You just want us to follow your orders blindly, as if we were tools for you. You just want an extra benefit from everything. A profit that we can't see beforehand, but nothing is free with you. Like your demonic parent, you are a parasite ready to prey on others. And don't dare speak of Sandor.”

She smirked, “But you know I'm right. He would have accepted helping me immediately.”

After mutely moving his lips, as if he were going to say something else, Ifan left the room, slamming the door. 

“Forgive him.” Arhu said softly. “He has been passing through hard times.”

It took her a moment to answer, as if she were recovering from something else. “I know. He bites when wounded. But that doesn't give him any right to hurt my feelings” Malady smirked, her tone full of sarcasm. Sebille could not help but half smile. 

“But, um... actually... It would be nice if you could tell us who are the others we need to gather.” Lohse said. 

Raising an eyebrow, Malady looked at her, touching her own chin with her fingertips. “Don't you know, my dear, that speaking is spoiling?”

“I know. But Ifan is right. We need to know. You never know if we can find shortcuts to them in other missions. Maybe we can find both of these guys at the same time? You know, that kind of thing happens. Also, maybe we can offer a new perspective.” Lohse smiled at Malady, who in return did the same. 

Malady sighed, she was so weak with that redhead. “Very well. Just do not fret.”

Before she could explain, the room's door was opened. Walking in normally, still frowning, Ifan entered. He closed the door without violence this time and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall and looking at Malady, awaiting her explanation. She huffed. The wolf was as manipulative as her when he wanted to be. 

Full of expectations, everyone remained in silence, focused on Malady's walk back and forth along the room. “We have a powerful ally. A demon king on my side. He will help us.”

Lohse opened her eyes wide. “Are you serious, Malady? A demon?”

“I knew it, I knew it.” Ifan muttered. 

Malady flickered her wrist several times, rolling eyes. “Now, now. You see why I didn't want to tell you anything else?”

“Keep talking.” Sebille insisted, serious and dreadfully intense on her. 

“He is on my side. I've done all the dirty work for him already. He even will allow me to contact Zixzax (*), an old imp in a who-knows demonic plane. He has the knowledge of all times and worlds.” These words made Arhu raise his eyebrows, surprised. “I need to find the Weaver of Time (*) as well.” She looked directly at him. “We need to rewrite History, or destroy what will be written if we fail. Those two will be my targets. That means that I will leave you alone for a while. Please, behave. Be good boys and girls, and don’t break anything. As for you-” Then she looked at Sebille “-There is also a powerful dragon god that I'm not sure if he still lives. He is in Orobas Fjord as well. He is called Vacca (*). One of the last of his kind.”

“So, was this all the plan with the Seven? Just gathering seven powerful people? And then what? No plan?” Ifan asked. 

Malady sighed in annoyance, “The plan will be outlined once we know how many of those seven powers we have.”

He forced a laugh full of mistrust. “Woah, never heard of a better, flawless plan ever.”

“Do you think that gathering ancient powers is something to have for granted? That they are not dead or consumed by circumstances? We are looking for people from the legends. How many chances do we have to find them and convince them?” 

Ignoring the argument, Sebille squinted at Malady, her assigned mission now filling her mind, “You said Vacca (*). The last of the lizards that were dragons before?” 

“That's what the tales say. What truly happened was... slightly different.”

“How so?” Tarquin added, now very interested. 

“Let's say that elves have lost too many scraps of their History despite their gifted memories.”

“What does that even mean?” Sebille said. 

“_ Tassallan Dirtheren _” Malady said in Elvish. 

Sebille and Ifan widened their eyes.

“Now you get it.” Malady smirked. 

Lohse looked at Sebille and poked her arm. “What's that?”

“The tale of the elven dragon,” Sebille said, frowning. “A tale of a lost elven tribe that... that was powerful shifters into dragons.”

“More like shifters into elves.”

Malady's final words echoed in everyone's minds. It was surprising to know that the mythical last one of the Dragon Knight lizards had always been an elf from the Dragonshifter tribes. But to suggest that such elves had always been dragons… that was mind blowing. The implications were dire.

Putting aside the shock of the new information revealed, they scheduled the missions to recover the small bits of power scattered all over the world, wishing it would be enough to destroy the Child of Pandemonium.

* * *

The Godwoken walked outside the academy surrounded by a dark silence. The strange truths revealed and the plans ahead required more time than some minutes to be processed. Asking for a moment, Lohse headed to the recently made monument dedicated to Sandor and folded her hands, offering a quiet prayer. 

By the look of Ifan's face, Sebille elbowed him, “She understands the world in a different way and can connect with it.”

Ifan shook his head. “The gods are dead. We killed them. Who does she pray to?”

“You know, mystic things.”

Ifan smiled genuinely, looking at Sebille’s tender eyes aimed at Lohse. “It's good to see you two are fine.”

She looked down a bit, as if a sudden embarrassment had reached her, and clearing her throat, she patted Ifan's back. 

“So... what do you think about all this and these Seven replacements?” Fane asked out of the blue, while the whole group joined Lohse in front of the monument with more intentions of talking than praying to the dead. 

“At least we know how wild and desperate this is.” Ifan said. “Consorting with demons. I mean, we should not be surprised, right? Fucking Malady, half demon herself, after all. If we didn’t push her to talk, she would have been bossing us around blindly until who-knows-when.”

“But she doesn't have ill-intentions” Lohse spoke, turning on her heels to see the three of them. “I sensed it. She said we need to gather seven powers. She talked about Arhu, Zandalor (*) maybe, A demon king, Zixzax, Weaver of Time and a dragon god. I didn't get who was the seventh.”

“I am.” Fane said. 

“No offence, but... are you supposed to replace Sandor?” Ifan asked, eyebrow cocked. He was accustomed to sensing Sandor's body holding his maelstrom of Source inside. Fane was nothing alike. He could feel his powerful Source, of course, but it was not that intense hum deafening his ears as the pressure of the power loomed around him, secretly. Sandor always had been a ticking bomb, holding on as much as he could.

“When it comes to his powers, yes.” Fane said, straightening his back, and looking down at Ifan, “However, I'm not going to take his place in any mating ritual with you. You are warned.”

“Ugh.” Ifan closed his eyes, hit by a sudden and unrequited mental image. “As if I wanted to.” 

Lohse simply laughed softly. 

“I should inform this plan to Saheila. She can be a good asset too.” Ifan added.

“Good idea, I see what I can find with my own resources” Sebille said. 

Their looks lingered a bit more onto the soft glow of the top of the staff, and returned to their houses. They had a lot of plans ahead to think about. 

* * *

Iron taste in his mouth. Bombing sounds around repeating an endless pattern. Smell of burnt bodies. A landscape of blood. He opened his eyes just to overwhelm his senses with the atrocities of War. Nausea and headache. Tiredness all along his body. Lucian was screaming far away, commanding his troops to keep on fighting against the tyranny and the wicked ones. 

Ifan tried to yell back, to charge, but he fell on his knees. He kept hearing those words, so inspiring yet poisoning. He gathered enough energy and stood up from the ground once again. He was covered in hot blood, and some cursed wound felt like lava running inside his body, infectious. So much pain. So much madness. So much tiredness. 

He looked for his shield and his sword around and found them sunk into corpses. He pushed them out, lacerating the rigid bodies while the symbol of the de Divine Order engraved in both glinted. He turned over the shield, confused at the sight of that cursed heraldry. Now, Lucian's shouts echoed far away. He lifted his head and looked at surveyed the horizon, trying to find him. But he only saw the grey foggy mountains of the landscape. The Holy Mountains. This place was Ataraxia, the Western entrance to the desert of Mezd. The place where so much grief started. 

He stopped his movements as he remembered something. Something more painful than wounds. Something more bitter than the blood in his mouth. Something that made him break time ago. 

He saw the bombs, far away, falling over the Holy Mountain in the North, while the _ Deathfog _ bombs exploded in the elven lands, at the South-West. 

“No...” he whispered. His weapons fell on the ground, suddenly rusty, as he remembered how much he lost in war, how many died with the bombs. He howled, memories and emotions whirling into a painful confusion.

“What if you could bring someone back to life?” A soft voice echoed behind him. 

Shocked, he turned over to see the owner of such a cocky and proud tone, a well-known voice. And only then, he saw her. That elegant elf, tall, enormous, with hair and eyes made of gold, and her wicked, tender smile curving her lips. He could not resist that image, and fell on his knees again, letting the tears fall without restriction under decades of desperate need to see her for the last time. 

“I'm so sorry, Nue. I'm so sorry.”

She tilted her head and crossed her arms, still smiling. “Look at you, love. You are such a mess.”

“This world is a mess, Nue. Everything has been so wrong since... since you left....” 

“Pleeeease. You can't say the world was not a mess _ before. _ The war didn't start the day after.”

Ifan chuckled and wiped out some tears from his cheeks, sniffing, “Did I lose my mind? Talking to you after... after what happened in the Holy Mountain.”

Both remained looking at each other, she standing proud before him while he remained on his knees. With a clean movement, she knelt too, hugging Ifan. He closed his eyes, enjoying that beautiful sandalwood scent from Nueleth's bark-skin, her hair caressing his cheeks like willow branches in the breeze. He had missed her so much.

“But you didn't answer my question...” She whispered, “Who would you bring back?”

“You, of course.”

“What if I told you that you can?”

Ifan drew back hastily and looked at her, his eyes jumping from each corner of her face, enjoying the image of something that he thought he was starting to forget. “Can I?”

She nodded with a bright smile, “You only need to offer something of value, something inside you.”

Ifan frowned, confused. And when he got an idea, something of enough value to exchange, he woke up in that old bed, in the same room of the barracks, knowing he had dreamt about something important, but barely knowing it had been about Nueleth. 

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Behrlihn** [ [ Divinity II: Ego Draconis ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Behrlihn)]: Wizard and Follower of Chaos. He was part of a group of chaos-worshipping wizards--the Black Ring or a precursor to it--that wished to bring forth the Lord of Chaos. To stop them, the Council of the Seven was created, heading into The War of the Wizards. With the Council victory at the end of the war, Behrlihn was executed and his essence was trapped in a magical Vault.

**Vacca ** [ [ Divinity II: Ego Draconis ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Vacca)] : He is a Dragon Elf wizard that appears in Divinity II: Ego Draconis. In this game, Dragons were the creators that crafted the world as we know it, and lived with the Elves when they were the only race ruling Rivellon. That's why in this game the first Dragon Knights had been elves. I like to take this concept and make Rivellon confuse it with other myths, blurring the true identity of Vacca. 

**Weaver of Time** [ [ Divinity Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/End_of_Time)] Entity living in the End of Times who chronicles History, taking a degree of control over time and History. She can weave stories and rewrite them.

**Zandalor** [ [ Lore in general, all Divinity games except DOS2 ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zandalor)]: Ancient wizard of great importance in Rivellon. Friend of Arhu.

**Zixzax** [ [ Lore in general, Divine Divinity, Divinity Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/ZixZax) ] : Imp that first appears in _ Divine Divinity _ . He introduces himself as a historian, thief of the first teleporting pyramids. In _ Divinity II _ he is introduced as Zixzax the Almost-Wise, an ancient imp historian with great mastery in languages that was trapped in Rivellon after Lucian kept the pyramids. 

  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

“It's working! It's working!” 

A general murmur became slowly into joyful shouts spread along the rows of Guardians standing at the docks, looking at the ship rising from the sea to the skies. 

“Of course it's working, you bunch of incredulous soldiers. All my lovely Source has been put in its powerful engine. It will work even after my death.” Engineer Sanders said moving his hand in the air, while DeSelby, by his side, looked at the sky with a broad smile. 

Ifan looked at the ship as well, but his lips were sealed in a grave expression. Although his eyes were on the hull, his mind was wandering around. 

“This will be an important asset.” Lysanthir's words came from Ifan's back. 

Brought into reality once again, he looked at the ground. “Yes. A bit late, but... yes.”

Out of the blue, the day turned dark and an icy wind blew from the South. A big shadow covered the sunlight over half of the Docks for a fraction of a second. Taken aback, everyone stopped their shouts of joy and frost in their spot. Their eyes looked up at the sky, scanning for the massive creature, but they could not see it until a second later. As soon as that enormous body appeared, it disappeared. The only thing they could see was its wings, flying at an unbelievable speed which left a burning cold wind at its wake. 

A silence proper of a graveyard was extended all along the Docks, while the Guardians, slowly, got their weapons at the ready. The wind had frozen everyone's lips and had spread shivers over their bodies filling their souls with dread. From afar, the sound of a heavy flapping could be heard, getting closer and closer, sometimes interrupted by a high-pitched squeak. And then, once again, a massive shadow covered the docks for a fraction of a second. This time, however, everyone saw it clearly: a majestic blue creature flying over them. A dragon.

In panic, everyone ran away in the middle of the screams, while the Guardians took their defence positions and barked orders waiting for the imminent attack. However, the flapping and the shadow continued, coming and going, but the creature never attacked. 

“Commander, we have all the archers ready, we are going to kill it-”

“Over the city itself!? You lost your mind?” Ifan widened his eyes. “Stop the offensive. The creature is not...  _ attacking us. _ ” He frowned to himself, confused by his words.

Ifan and Lysanthir shared a look full of questions and left the docks immediately. They ran to the entrance of Arx and observed the sky, wondering if their action could have worse consequences. Meanwhile, DeSelby continued deploying archers around the city, and warriors with long range weapons in the docks. 

The dragon flapped over the city entrance several times, as if it were cautious, expecting a trap or a surprise attack. The air thrummed.

“If you are not foe to us, land. We won't attack you.” Ifan yelled at the sky. 

Slowly, with all the care that such massive creature could manage, the dragon landed off in front of them, and in silence, surveyed all the Guardians hidden between the crenels* of the wall, aiming arrows and spells at him. The dragon looked at Lysanthir and then at Ifan. That was the one he knew. 

“Tell your soldiers to stop aiming. I shall not shift if so.”

Ifan raised his arm and with a subtle movement of his hand, his people put down their weapons, carefully observing the scene at the distance. Only in that moment, the dragon’s body shone green and reduced its size, displaying his Lizard appearance. He smiled at Ifan, met his eyes searching for something deep down, and bowed in respect. Surprised, Ifan nodded barely. 

“I hope you remember me, we both met years ago, in that isle full of horrors. I've made an Oath to one of your companions.  _ When you have no choice but to back down or perish, you will find safety in my shadow. This, I promise _ .” The Lizard said.

Ifan half smiled, hit by the sudden memory. “Ah, I remember you now. Slane.”

The Lizard bowed extravagantly once again and looked around, as if he were looking for someone. “May I ask where your companion is?”

Ifan sighed. “I'm afraid... he... he is dead. Died almost a year ago.”

They remained in silence for a moment, as an icy wind blew in the place. 

“So... unfortunate.” Slane stepped forward and reached Ifan to talk to him in a more discreet way. “Still, I have a promise to fulfil. And I can't see more fitting times than these.” 

Ifan raised an eyebrow, staring at him, waiting for his words. 

“I've come to offer myself and all my noble Dragon Knight knowledge to your battle. I cannot turn my eyes to what's coming. The Lizard army and the Voidwoken swarms have been destroying the lands of the North, leaving only death and despair. Everything in life must be balanced. And so much destruction can't be tolerated. For that, I want to help you.”

Ifan nodded. “We appreciate it deeply. We need as many assets as we can get. However, I think it would be safer for you to stay in the Guardians' Keep. There, a friend of mine called Gareth will offer you the best accommodations and safety for you to stay in Lizard form. We had got... some...” he looked aside trying to find those annoying words, “political issues, let’s say. And people have turned a bit sensitive about Lizards.”

After a moment of silent consideration, Slane accepted the offer. Moving his arms in a sign of reassurance, Ifan calmed down his soldiers and walked into Arx accompanied by Slane. They were going to keep him inside the barracks for a while, away from inquisitive eyes. A war owl was immediately sent to Gareth in order to inform that a new voluminous guest was going to visit them soon. A truly good asset to have in this oncoming war.

* * *

In less than a couple of weeks, Slane had finally settled in the Guardians' Keep. He shared the information of what he had witnessed in the North when he flew over the area. Although it was not inner intel, it was useful anyway, and fitted quite well with Sebille’s reports. 

Slane expressed his concern about the rich lands of the North, now eroded and suppurating in infectious blisters. On his way to Arx, flying over that landscape of horror, he had only seen dead trees, bloody vegetables with pulsating veins, and dark stone altars over which fresh sacrifices were lain. Corpses, skeleton, and the penetrating stench of death spread without limits.

His description seemed to match the Bloodmoon Isle's landscape; but due to its extension, what had happened in the North was considered unprecedented. That bloody scenery was not the result of the demon actions, as it was in the isle. In the North happened strange and dangerous things. That conclusion worried Gareth deeply. The Lizard Empire seemed to have left aside their mannerisms and taste for ostentatious beauty, replacing them with what looked like the Black Ring aesthetics. The slight consideration of such possibility froze his blood.

That morning Malady arrived in the Keep accompanied by Sebille. She was simultaneously managing several missions using Gareth's and Arhu's assets while collecting more information about potential mighty allies. Arx and the Keep had turned into her main meeting points for operations.

In the council room of the Keep, Malady and Gareth took a seat around the map table. This was a huge table with a Rivellon map carved on its surface, where some Lizard figures were placed on the North. When Sebille entered, the man smiled at her, making a gracious nod inviting her to join them to the table. She replied the gesture out of courtesy. Soon after her entrance, a tall and handsome Lizard followed her, bowing to everyone in an exaggerated way, highly tied to an extreme protocol code. 

“It's a great pleasure to find yet another familiar face.” Slane said looking at Sebille, “You were there as well, that time I was freed from Radeka's wicked powers”

“Ah, so you are here. Quite a surprise.”

Gareth invited him to take a seat around the table while Malady spoke, “As you know, we need any information we can get. That's why I've called for you two. We need your expertise for a particular mission: investigate the Bane Lands (*).”

“That's a dead zone.” Sebille said. It had been dead since the bomb of  _ Deathfog _ exploded and destroyed all the forest around, including the elven home.

“Not anymore. It has been cleansed.” Malady smirked, letting transpire the fact that she knew who was responsible for it. “According to Tarquin, there have been strange movements involving enormous amounts of Source in that place. Recently. He assumes the possibility of a mass purge in there.” 

“Mass purge?” Slane asked, his claws, resting relaxed on the table until that moment, sank a litle bit on the wood. 

“It's impossible to say for sure from here. We need people there to see the matter closer. It could be a massive purge, an opening portal to this world, another Aetera (*). We don't know.”

“Is any of those even possible?” Sebille asked. 

“You never know. The North has turned into an unknown zone since the advance of the Lizard Army, which makes impossible an effective deep espionage.” Gareth explained. 

“There it is where you shine, my dear.” Malady said looking at Sebille. “Nobody better than you. You know them, you were trained in their arts. You can blend in those lands,” and then, she looked at Slane, “And you can provide her not only a safe travel but, if you need to face other Lizards, a good façade as a Master bringing his personal slave.” Sebille twitched her lips, the mental image brought a bad taste in her mouth. “Nobody has better chances to infiltrate there than you two.”

Slane took his time to think about it, then he looked at Sebille, “Fellow spy, would you allow me to keep this façade as long as it takes, if needed? By the mark on your face I understand the weight you must feel in your soul with this potential performance. I want to be clear, because an unpredictable outrage could put us at risk. These are dire times, and we cannot afford losing our minds.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Are you assuming I'll go crazy?”

Closing his eyes, lowering his head just a little as an apology, Slane shook his head. “No. But I'm not strange to the deep scars that chains leave.”

Looking down at the map carved on the table, observing the lizard figures on it, Sebille remained quiet for a moment. Then, she half smiled and met Slane's eyes, nodding. “I'll be fine. We need to do this.”

“Perfect. It's settled.” Malady put a golden elf figure and a golden dragon on the North. She took an extra elven figure, and infusing in it a little bit of her own Source, she twisted the wood deforming half of it. Then, she placed it on the top of the map, out of its margins. “Now I can head to look for Zixzax (*) and the Weaver of Time (*).” She looked at Gareth. “I won't be in this dimension for a while. You are the one leading this, once again. From now on, you must do whatever it takes to collect as many assets as you can. And keep this in your mind: it doesn't matter if they cross the line of what's right.”

Gareth inhaled loudly but nodded accepting the order, knowing he was going to regret it at some point. 

* * *

“Is it not incredible? It's so beautiful.” Lysanthir said, smiling like a child in front of the ship. The exhibition of the marvel in Arx continued the following day after Slane came.

Arms crossed, Ifan was observing the flying machine anchored at the docks. It was not like the Lady Vengeance, a single ship with the ability to sail into the sea due to the Source of an elven soul trapped in its wood. This engineering marvel made by Sanders was a Zeppelin prototype, which could mainly travel through air and through water if needed. Ifan could not stop thinking that this new means of transport alone would have prevented the destruction of the elves, back in the past. Only one machine of these, with enough time before the  _ Deathfog _ bombs were dropped... it could have changed History itself. 

Out of the blue, the walls around the docks shone an intense green. Everyone felt a gust of Source as hefty flames were spat out from the boxes that were part of the defence system, immediately activating the alarm. In the sky, over the centre of the city, a crack was open wide and poured a group of Voidwoken into the city. Some screams were heard soon afterwards. Lysanthir and Ifan looked at each other, tense, and ran to the barracks. DeSelby already had the situation under control and was preparing more defence groups.

“Report.” Ifan said. 

“The system went mad. Several areas around the city had been targeted. More Voidwoken incoming in an hour. Not just one group. Engineer Sanders said this... will be hell.” DeSelby closed her mouth, pressing her lips. They were trembling, as it was doing her hand, pretending to rest relaxed on the hilt of her sheathed sword. 

Lysanthir blinked, “A swarm?”

She nodded and swallowed hard. “Not just one. Probably more than three. It'll be worse than last year. I-...” She looked down, gathering enough strength when Ifan's gentle hand touched her shoulder, “I think we should evacuate the city.  _ Now _ .”

Ifan looked at her frowning slightly, silent. He had not been there when the first swarm happened, and he was not sure how to ponder her opinion now. The experience had left deep scars in her mind.

“You defended this city once, and with less Guardians.” Lysanthir said, probably thinking the same as Ifan.

“Less Guardians, yes. But we got our Mestre, and the few guardians we had, got enough Source for that battle. Now we have too many Source-less soldiers. I talked to Arhu, he saw the system reaction... and he agreed with me.”

Ifan sighed. Well,  _ that  _ was an opinion he could not doubt. That wizard had lived too long to understand true danger, and like DeSelby, he had seen the swarm firsthand. “So be it. We always knew they would attack again, worse than the previous time. We can't underestimate them. Start the evacuation. DeSelby, put the slowest people in the flying machine. The rest has to follow you through the forest and the desert. Gather all your people to defend them and head to the Guardian's Keep.”

DeSelby nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“The best I always do; buying us time.” He looked up at Lysanthir, “Gather all our people who can fight long and hard. Tell them it's a swarm. Don't bring those who became shocked with the news. We need people who can keep a level head.”

Lysanthir blinked. “We could lure the Voidwoken to the North and-”

“You know how they behave. They want Source, they won't go to a barren land. We'll do everything we can to keep Arx together, but...” Ifan shook his head, unable to finish his sentence. “Just, go ahead. And don't die.” He ordered, looking at DeSelby, and then to Lysanthir.

They spread immediately, while Ifan ran to the Academy, shouting Arhu's name. The wizard did not have much time to ask what was happening. Ifan's worried face was enough for Arhu to follow him without explanations back to the barracks. 

“I need you to protect the main group, Arhu. That group will head to the Guardians' Keep by land. Talk to DeSelby.” 

In no time, close to the city entrance, most people in Arx were forming lines along the streets, ready to be separated into two big groups for the exodus. The aristocratic families of Arx, not even waiting for their turn in the line, overwhelmed the barracks gates demanding to board the flying machine. They complained that the vehicle was being misused to transport cripple people and kids that were mainly from the slum. Ifan tried to convince them that they were not going to be less protected in the group travelling by land. After all, the wizard Arhu was going to cast a mobile shield over the group while DeSelby's people were going to kill any Voidwoken that would cross their path. They were going to be safe as well.

However, it seemed impossible to reason with them. Ifan did not have a chance to convince them since a second crack, right over their heads, appeared in the sky. The second wave of Voidwoken had just started; it was a matter of minutes before the creatures would attack. They knew that the more they waited, the worse the waves were going to become, so they needed to rush.

“I demand to board the ship.” The voice of a woman raised among the crowd as her cane hit the ground repetitively.

_ No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.  _ Ifan rubbed his face, knowing what was coming. Always at the worst moment.

Sanguinia Tell, Paulina Kemm, and the head of several rich families appeared before them, pushing through the lines. 

“We don't have time for this.” Ifan said with a slight frown and jaw tensed.

“You are not going to use  _ our _ resources to save  _ those _ people. I'm sad for them, but we have priorities.” Paulina added in her affected tone.

A cracking sound was followed by a quake, and a purple line cracked the space meters away from them. From it, a dozen Voidwoken appeared, running into the people who were in the row. Screams and panic raised in a second after three Voidwoken bit several men and tore them apart, draining their Source. 

Shield and sword in hand glowing with their Source, Ifan and DeSelby charged at two of them. The surprise element allowed them to behead the creatures without much trouble. The third one, now prepared, attacked with its spiky tail to Ifan, who dodged it efficiently, but tumbled with a panicked person who ran into him. 

The creature aimed a second hit with its tail, knowing it would not fail, but DeSelby charged against it. In a quick defence, the Voidwoken bit DeSelby's shield and threw it against the walls of the barracks dragging the paladin with it. DeSelby hit her back soundly and slid to the floor groaning. The creature ignored her for the moment, it was truly interested in Ifan's Source. After all, Source masters were the Voidwoken's most desired meal. 

The creature charged against Ifan who rolled on the ground to evade it, but he did not take into account the tail. One of its spikes pierced his leg dragging him along the street and slamming him against it. It was in that moment when, jumping up with intense Source-charged axes, Lysanthir grabbed the creature's neck with his legs and delivered the dual hit with his axes exactly on its head. The creature roared, deadly wounded, and fell. 

Quickly, Lysanthir helped DeSelby and Ifan to stand up again, healing the deepest level of their wounds with his weak healing skill. 

“We don't have more time. We can't risk the whole group waiting for more people,” Ifan winced disliking this decision, “DeSelby, make the first group leave under one of your most efficient lieutenants, with Arhu. Keep gathering people in this mess to set a second group and, if needed, a third one. We need to control this wave, and regroup again.”

After an energetic nod, DeSelby ran outside the city. Lysanthir smirked at the dead Voidwoken, kicking it with some level of curiosity and then ran into the city, looking for more people that had to be evacuated.

Alone, Ifan looked at the ground where the first Voidwoken had attacked. 

With eyes full of terror and a wound in her throat that was profusely bleeding, Sanguinia extended a trembling hand towards him. A silent plea for help. Ifan simply stared at her with his cold wolf-like eyes. The scene was not particularly exhilarating. He was not enjoying to watch her slow death, full of pain and panic, but all he had lost with Sandor, all that restricted lifestyle they had to lead, always fearing to leak too much; all their natural gestures repressed just in case that woman would find it and use it against them, all those memories that could have been and never were and never will be, poisoned Ifan's look. Stoic, he observed her very end. Her last effort was a dead rattle, after which her eyes, finally, rolled back. Only then, he blinked out of the trance, and a sigh of relief left his chest, realising that he had just let his past cruel self took over him for a moment. He was not proud of it but he was too emotionally wounded to care right then.

_ Enough of thinking. _ The situation ahead required a cool head, and he was good at it. He moved his neck, releasing cracking sounds, and then ran along Arx's streets. There was still an invasion that needed to be contained.

While the Guardians fought this wave — more numerous than the previous one — the first group of exiles left the city, helped by few Guardians and Arhu. A second group was sent before a new wave would come. 

When they were gathering the last remnants of people for a third and last group, an echoing shriek from the main street dragged everyone's attention. A Gheist was killing Voidwoken. 

“What the hell? Now those?” Ifan said after delivering a killing blow to the creature he was facing. 

With every shriek, the Gheist teleported among the Voidwoken, tearing them apart and beheading them. Although the scene was unnerving, nobody moved from their spot, observing the Gheist’s behaviour. Was it foe or ally? When the biggest Vodiwoken fell, and everyone's line of sight was clear, they distinguished a man in black running behind the Gheist. He had three bags of books on his back and several ones hanging from his waist and arms. 

Ifan rubbed his face wiping out the sweat, “Tarquin, for the Goners, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you left on the flying ship.”

“Yes, yes, I did... but... I... certainly had some pending matters in the Academy. Do you remember the pyramids? It happened to be one left here. And it was going to be a terrible waste if I could not take advantage of such an event. So I've been transporting everything to the Keep-”

“You have been transporting books when we are here stuck here with people in danger!?” A female angry voice came from behind Ifan. DeSelby strode towards Tarquin and grabbed his hair, pushing his head back and approaching her face too close to his. 

The man hissed in pain but did not drop any book. Torture would always be welcomed instead of losing that precious information.

“Release him, DeSelby. It doesn't matter. Now we can teleport immediately.” Lysanthir said, a smile of relief on his face.

With his hair still pulled, Tarquin smirked as his eyes squinted. “Well... there could be a little... small.... tiny problem about it...”

Everyone snapped their heads at him. 

“What?” Ifan said. He knew that Tarquin's  _ tiny _ problems were always a terrible under-appreciation of the level of trouble they were in. 

“Voidwoken rushed into the Academy. And... we.... they may have eaten my pyramid.”

DeSelby pulled his hair harder, almost snarling. “You lost our chance-”

But she could not finish her phrase. A new wave of Voidwoken appeared. Hundreds of small ones followed by dozens of giant deep-dwellers walked into the city. 

“No time for blames. DeSelby, leave the city,  _ NOW! _ Tarquin, go with her, use your Gheist. Lysanthir, leave, just give me your best five people... and we... will try to buy you time.”

The group immediately dispersed following the orders. 

Ifan sighed deeply and, out of the blue, remembered that strange training he had got with Sandor years ago. The ability to gather Source pretending to burn it without using it, as a mere display of Source strength. It was the best bait for swarms. So he did it. He gathered all his Source around him while green glowing cracks spread on his neck, cheeks, and temples. Afrit appeared by his side, snarling at the Voidwoken; his claws were enormous and his fur had turned into Source flames.

Carrying all that Source, Ifan ran into the main square of the city, bringing the attention of the whole swarm onto him. The trick was going to allow a more or less easy escape for the last group. In the street he found four Guardians, the most powerful battle mages that Lysanthir had been training, who joined him in the main square, ready to fight the creatures. They were exhausted, same as Ifan.

_ This is it _ , Ifan thought. The last ones standing. He had been there so many times in his life, that such situation had lost its usual paralysing effect on him. Or maybe the thought that this was going to be his last battle gave him some degree of mental peace that allowed him to deal much better with the thought.

Shield and sword at hand, he charged against the Voidwoken, casting his deadly spell of thousands of crossbows with massive Source arrows aiming in all directions. Afrit attacked the smallest ones, consuming their Source and keeping him strong. A secret technique based on the Source Vampirism that Ifan had developed with his loyal friend since Source started to fade. 

“Hold the line!” He shouted to the battlemages.

Despite the efforts, the Guardians were beaten as many times as he was, standing immediately after rolling on the ground. Blood, ichor, and dirt were covering them, while their Source started to become weaker and weaker. They were not going to buy that much time he wanted to.

An enormous deep-dweller attacked a downed Guardian, and unable to simply watch it, Ifan rushed into it, bashing its dangerous jaws with his shield and delivering a slay in its neck. The creature roared, making a violent spin. Because the long battle had worn him out, Ifan could not dodge the tail in time. It threw him against a house window that despite the impact, it did not break. Instead, a shock of Source spread over his body. He slid down to the ground, recognizing the Source running inside him. Sandor's Source.

He looked aside. Among the fallen buildings, Sandor's little house was still there, protected with the last remnants of his Source. Ifan stood up leaning against the wall and touched the window with his fingers. Sandor's training allowed him to take all that Source infused in that house, recharging his exhausted body. However, in doing so, the protection of that small place fell apart. That house that had hosted warm memories once, now was destined to become rubble. He wished he could have had time to rescue some last memento from it, but he knew it was impossible considering the current situation of the city. With that thought, the house fell apart as his Source recharged completely.

_ Thank you, Sandor. _

All the Voidwoken of the city froze, looking around in order to spot the origin of such an amount of power. Once they found it, they started to walk concentrically towards Ifan savouring the feast they were going to have in a moment.

However, a wild scream broke the focus of the creatures, and before they could turn their heads to watch the source of the sound, a violent swirl of Source rushed into them, burning the smallest Voidwoken in its wake and hurting the bigger ones. When the tornado of Source dissipated, Lysanthir appeared in the middle of it, resting in one leg, both hands strongly grabbing his axes. He was panting. Now it was him who was getting the attention of the remaining deep-dwellers.

“You want this Source? Come for it!” Lysanthir shouted at the Voidwoken and burnt his Source once again to keep the attention on him, turning himself into a bait. “Run! The third group is safe!” He shouted to Ifan and his Guardian comrades. 

“I've told you to leave!” Ifan said, frowning, recovering his shield and sword from the ground.

“You asked me to get you my best fine warriors. I couldn't  _ not _ be here.”

Ifan shook his head.  _ Damn cocky elf.  _ “We can't just leave. They'll follow us.”

“Just head to the entrance.” Lysanthir shouted as he jumped into the air to fall on the monster's head, stabbing both axes in its skull. A stream of ichor sprouted, soaking the elf from head to toes. 

Ifan and the rest of the Guardians joined Lysanthir to fight together against the creatures. There was strength in numbers after all. However, that faint sensation of victory disappeared when new cracks opened over the city. They were still cleaning the last wave when a fourth one started. 

Flying Voidwoken took the sky, their flapping wings producing an intense wind while half-eels and half-scarab Void creatures climbed the city's wall, hissing as their bodies crawled along the destroyed streets. Four-legged Voidwoken surrounded them, cornering them like a rabid pack of infested wolves does with a hard -to-catch prey. Behind them, there were the last two enormous deep-dwellers, moving their jaws and pincers in the air.

Ifan gasped as he could feel Lysanthir's back against his, shivering in terror. 

“Just run. Now!” Ifan screamed as Afrit howled furiously. He displayed enough Source to keep the attention of the Voidwoken, and once again, he cast the massive Source crossbows spell. By the corner of his eye, he saw Lysanthir and the other Guardians running in different directions, clashing against more creatures. Damn stubborn people. 

Wrapped in wild flames of intense Source and unfolding enormous claws, Afrit jumped alone toward one of the biggest Voidwoken, and Ifan did the same with the other, shield covering his front as he raised the sword.

But when he was going to deliver the hit, a roar — deeper than a dragon's — emerged from the ground. A sudden earthquake tore apart the whole city, exposing the deepest levels of Earth and oozing violent lava. The nearby buildings fell and half of the Voidwoken were consumed by the rising rivers of fire.

Although his focus was lost for a fraction of a second, it was enough for Ifan to fail in his dodge. Something had violently pierced him. He looked down at his torso, unable to breathe, and confirmed his doom.

Two claws were emerging from his body, one at his stomach and the other in the middle of his chest. A short distraction was all that was needed.  _ Damn it. _

Blood and liquid Source poured from his mouth, his lungs still not working. He looked for Afrit, but the creature was nowhere to be seen, while the surrounding sounds became slower and diffused. He guessed that Lysanthir was screaming his name in horror, but he was not sure. The pain in his chest was overwhelming his mind, turning him deaf.

He felt another energetic jerk, followed by a wind blowing on his face, to end with a painful hit on a wall that broke his ribs, and collapsed on the ground like a rag doll. He had been thrown against what was left of a wall, close to the entrance of Arx. He moved his legs, trying to get up, to stand, for one last time; his survival instinct kept kicking in. But all his strength had abandoned him. The blood was starting to spread profusely under his body as he felt cold. He cough, dark blood and silver liquid stained his unfocused hand.  _ This was it _ . He knew it. No more last standing fights in his life. This was the end. The  _ true  _ end.

He did not know what happened with Lysanthir, or the other Guardians. The sound around him was muffled. There were no words to understand, only groans and whimpers, that maybe, were his own. It did not matter anymore. They all were doomed. 

With the last bit of energy, he turned over his broken body to rest his back on the ground. He coughed, sharp pain crossing his lungs and ribs. He had broken more bones than he could identify in this confusing state. But that did not matter either. At least he had turned over and could see the sky. He always hated the idea of dying with his face in the mud. Life had always been about muck. To leave this world in the same fashion he had lived was shameful.

He felt his vital energy disappear, oozing like the blood of his body did, spreading on the ground, cooling down. Some tears fell from his eyes while observing the dark sky. He wanted to die watching a beautiful sky. But no. His damned moon was not going to grant him such small desire either. He had to be content with the dark broken sky in front of him, the prominent cracks that kept pouring creatures, monstrous Voidwoken flying over, and a dense cloud of smoke.

He would have preferred a nice landscape. But that was all he was going to have. And with that tranquillity born by the acknowledgement of a long, painful journey reaching its end, he closed his eyes, using his last conscious thought for Sandor. And headed to the eternal dream.

* * *

A burning sensation on his chest and stomach made him open his eyes. The first thing he saw was the dark sky. The cracks in it had receded. They were not as big as during the attack, but they did not return to their previous size either.But the Voidwoken were gone. Or at least, that seemed to be the case from where he was laying. Sharpening his ears, Ifan could not hear anything but the calming sound of cracking fire from the nearby destroyed buildings. It was quiet. Dying was quiet, it seemed. Then, he sneezed, and piercing pain propagated all over his body. 

Hissing, he sat on the ground and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand. It was a mess of blood and liquid Source everywhere around him. He had never reached before that point in which Source — forced beyond his own limits — would hurt the core that all Sorcerers have inside.

He touched his ribs and looked down at his torso after another sneeze. The holes in his stomach and chest were gone. And in that moment, he saw it. Sandor's amulet, gently glowing, as it used to do Sandor's hands every time he healed him.  _ Damn Sandor.  _

Healing Source had been penetrating his body, fixing and restoring, caring and caressing. And making him sneeze for a while. This was what that ridiculous man had been plotting all that time, pretending to recharge the medallion or use it as an excuse to burn his Source. But instead, he had been building something incredibly powerful yet hidden. The glowing stopped once the amulet detected that Ifan was out of danger. He could still sense a lot of Source inside the amulet; it could be used many times more. Ifan smiled, unable to avoid some tears running along his dirty cheeks. He sneezed again, breaking the nostalgic moment. Still, he did not miss the irony of being healed by a dead man.

Recovered from the shock, reenergised enough by the medallion, he rubbed his face and looked around for a second time. It was a disaster, what was left of the glorious city. Half of the buildings had collapsed; those which were still standing were burning while dense columns of smoke rose over them. Small lakes of lava that had destroyed the streets were now cooling down. Hundreds of bodies, humans and Voidwoken alike, covered the landscape, and the rancid stench of rotten meat in combination with the ozone-like scent of Source filled the air. The new aesthetic of the city fitted it quite well. The ruins of a city dedicated to fallen gods had finally matched that destiny. He coughed, but this time, no blood or Source came out from his mouth.  _ Good. _ And then, he sneezed. 

“I see dead people. Wonderful. I'm delirious now. It must be a fever. Or blood loss. Well, imagining things... that's part of dying, they say. Damn luck that didn't hit my head. I hate dying slowly. Oh, how much I have to wait to be a fucking goner. I'm dead already, why this has to be so fucking slow. Damn it.”

Frowning, still confused, Ifan looked around to identify the origin of that thin thread of voice. Some meters away from him, under a big pile of rubble, Lysanthir had half his body trapped under it, exhausted and without a tiny bit of Source. He was bleeding that elven sap-blood through many parts, and by the way it had been spread on the ground, he had been bleeding intensely for an elf. Still, it was going to take at least a whole day to finally reach that point that would kill him. Sometimes, the benefit of being an elf and being slow to die by blood loss could be a curse in hopeless times.

Ifan stood up slowly, his legs trembling as he got used to his exhausted body. 

“You are a hell of a talkative dead man then.” Ifan said after a sneeze followed by a groan. He walked towards him. He tried to push the rubble with his bare hands, but he fell on his knees, panting. He was so damn exhausted. He touched Lysanthir's head, moving some sticky dirty locks from his face, just to give him some comfort while he recovered his breath. 

“How bad is it?” He asked Lysanthir who smiled wickedly.

“I-I think... it's... quite e-easy to guess. Even... even for a human.” His voice quivered. He was in deep pain.

“You can be dying but you still have that smart-ass mouth.”

“Huh. Always.” The elf winced a smile.

Ifan smiled back and took Sandor medallion's. He put it around Lysanthir's neck, expecting some magic to happen, but nothing was activated.  _ Damn Sandor, did you have to do it so specific that it only works with me? _ He sneezed again.

“What's that? A goodbye gift? Don't waste time on those silly things, you need to remove the rubble, otherwise I can't even heal myself a little bit.”

_ With what energy? _ Ifan thought while wearing the amulet again. He looked around. He was not sure for how long they would be safe. Despite no sign of Voidwoken at the moment, the whole place was full of Voidwoken eggs, who knew when the caregiver creatures would appear and send an alarm to the most aggressive ones. 

In his visual inspection, he saw one of the battle mages that had been fighting with them. His body was twisted in unnatural ways, the amount of blood around him was a clear proof that he was dead. Behind his head, a long puddle of liquid Source was spread. 

Ifan did not think twice, he struggled to get up and reach that body. He knelt before the puddle, took his time to gather strength and guts, and lowered his face to drink it, not without a sound of deep revulsion. He wiped out the filth on his lips with his wrist and returned where Lysanthir had been stuck. He finally could cast a kinetic wave of Source that removed all the rubble around the elf, setting him free. Certainly, the lower part of Lysanthir's body was in worse condition. 

Due to the effort, Ifan coughed heavily, and liquid Source ran down from the corner of his lips, as the increasing pain of Source ashes extended all over his body. 

Lysanthir looked at him with a worried expression. “That's a bad sign. Stop casting Source. At least for some days if you want to survive.”

Ifan helped him to lift a bit and to rest his back against some piece of wall, then he looked around for the other guardians. He found two dead ones in a corner of rubble, their bodies lying on extended Source puddles too, not far away from where Ifan had fallen. With a piece of a metal container he found on the ground, he gathered all what he could of that puddle and made Lysanthir drink it. Grunting at the horrible taste mixed with strong desperate memories, the elf finally could cast a precarious healing spell on him to, at least, stop the worst wounds. His bones were still broken, and he could hardly walk. That was all what he could do on his own. Ifan had to help him.

“I can't carry you, buddy. My legs can barely resist my own weight.” Ifan said in hushed tones, placing Lysanthir's arm around his neck. He sneezed.

Lysanthir shook his head softly, enduring the pain of his lower part, “I thought you were dead.” He whispered, tightening the contact around that neck, in relief. He had seen Voidwoken piercing Ifan's chest. There were no internal organs that could have survived that attack, yet, there he was, that man carrying his heavily wounded body after coming back from death. 

Lysanthir's sight fell on the waving medallion around Ifan's neck.  _ Yes. _ He could identify now that Source trapped there, receding by the minutes, hiding itself once again. It had been a long while since the last time he had felt it, but it was unmistakable. Sandor's healing Source was concentrated there. What a powerful wizard he had been if he still could imprint his presence in this world even after his death. 

“Me too. It seems I can't fucking have my rest. Maybe I don't deserve any.” Ifan said, his breath more laboured with each step.

“Please, don't brood, not now.” Lysanthir rolled his eyes, “Any survivor?”

They only found the fourth Guardian alive but unconscious. Her temple was bleeding, but apparently, most of her body seemed to have dealt very well with the fight. With a sigh of resilience, Ifan left Lysanthir on the ground close to the Guardian and took a small cart he had seen in the distance. Those carts were used by Arx sellers, allowing them to move their heavy wares without much effort. He could use it to carry the Guardian and Lysanthir at the same time, assuming his body would allow him to push it. He trusted that his hard physical training without magic was always meant for situations like this. 

“Are you sure you can push this? We are too much weight.” Lysanthir murmured, not putting much resistance when Ifan placed his back on the cart and the unconscious guardian by his side. 

“I'm not bleeding, I'll rest when needed and I'll keep pushing until I see help. It can't be too far.” He sneezed six time without stopping and grunted. “Damn it.”

The first steps were too much. Ifan slid on the ground and fell on his knees. He hissed, frustrated by a body that was not responding to him as it usually did. The Source ashes were there already, hurting every fibre of his exhausted muscles. Tiredness and pain were a bad combination. He breathed a couple of times, frowned deeply, and connected with Afrit internally. It was impossible to call him into this realm — he had not any bit of Source left in his body — but the mental connection was enough to share some energy that finally allowed Ifan to move the cart. Once he won over the resistance of it, the rest of the movement felt much easier. 

With a slow pace, they crossed the destroyed roads and headed to the South. They needed to reach, at least, the market road.

* * *

The view was wonderful in the heights. On Slane's dragon back, Sebille could see the vast extension of the lands that used to be a basin of  _ Deathfog _ and infection. Now, a green forest covered the terrains inspiring a sense of healing. A smile curved her lips, knowing that Ifan and Sandor had been a bit responsible for that miracle. 

At the North of the Bane Lands lay the beginning of the deserts of Mezd. Its usual golden sand had turned grey after the passage of the Lizards. It gave a nasty contrast with the intense vivid green of the recently recovered forests. The only line dividing those extremely different landscapes was a broad range of mountains. If what Malady and Gareth had told them was true, a massive Source movement had happened there recently. The desert — rotten and infected — was too far away from the place where it had been detected despite showing the symptom of such abuse, but the forest was too healthy for such an event either. The only possible place where it could have happened was in those mountains. 

Carefully, Slane flew over them while Sebille studied their shape. It took a moment for her to spot an entrance, a cave hidden between cliffs. 

Once landed, Slane returned to his lizard form and following Sebille, he headed into the cave. As they had assumed, the place was not a mere geological formation. Its inside was covered by metallic walls and intricate structures that Sebille remembered to have seen before in Eternal buildings. 

They found some Lizards guards that they killed without much effort, and headed into the depths of the cave. The place was over decorated with banners, signs, and wreaths of dark roses hanging from the walls. Some purulent flowers bloomed in the corner of the rooms, and the long dark corridors, barely illuminated by purple flames, stench of death. 

“I remember these.” Slane said, caressing a banner and looking around to each of those symbols. They were echoing in his body, filling him with despair, “They are from the Black Ring. Radeka(*) used to bring me to one of these buildings and tortured me, extracting every drop of Source of my hurt body. This has to be a massive purge, indeed.”

They continued walking into the building. Soon, doors with small barred windows started to appear on the corridor's walls. Peeking into them, they realised they were cells with silent monks inside. Not standard silent monks but failed ones; bodies spread on the floor, moving a limp as if it were a cramp, a violent sudden jerk, to remain still for a few seconds and repeat the ill pattern once again. Some other monks were just standing in the middle of the cell, looking at the ceiling, drooling. The horrors turned worse the more they explored the place. 

Their steps were suddenly halted by a shriek. A high-pitched sound, short and intense, that stopped as soon as it started, and repeated itself after three minutes. Getting close to the cell where those shrieks came from, Slane saw the tortured creature. But like the previous monks, it was a failed one. Deformed, that creature was chained to the wall, shrieking in the same sick pattern that the other silent monks jerked. 

“This is a place of horrors.” Slane said. 

They finally reach a big room with cages at its sides and several seats and tables with disturbing instruments on them in the middle. Chains and leather leashes were attached to those seats. The sudden sound of chains alerted them. They turned over their heels to see a Gheist in a corner. It was not the usual ones but one of the newest versions. 

Chained by its wrists and ankles, with a heavy anti-Source collar around its neck, the creature was pushing towards them, not in an aggressive attitude, but in a desperate one, as if it were asking for help. The creature was deformed, wearing ragged clothes that made the view more disturbing. Its skin was emanating a Source vapour as consequence of trying to keep all that massive power inside a body that had been broken by it. The Source was permanently heating its flesh, as its skin or scales — hardly to distinguish one from another — was a mixture of melted dough. 

Slane closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his hands, taking a moment. He could hear the deep scream inside the creature, echoing in his own Source. The poor thing was unable to vocalise it because, not only its lips were sewed, but its vocal chords had been melted too. The pain inflicted on these creatures was unthinkable. 

“What a heartless beast would do this to another person?” He whispered slowly, recovering from the shock. 

Sebille remained observing the creature. Its eyes were clouded, and by the way it faced aimlessly, she guessed it was blind. It had to be a failed Gheist too. It was impossible to deny that something in that deformed creature fascinated her. Its raw power barely contained in its own body, the curiosity of knowing the process to turn a normal creature of Rivellon into that, the fascination of an experiment becoming successful. Sebille was not completely immune to the strange rich knowledge she could gather here despite its crooked nature. 

So that she looked around and delved into any desk, library or box she found, gathering all the reports and books that could be slightly related to these creatures. Too focused on that, Sebille did not realise Slane's face, a bit disappointed with her reaction. He walked to the creature, and with a dagger, quickly cut the creature's throat. A merciful death was all what they could offer. He was going to deliver it to all those tortured souls. 

The bump of the dead body finally caught Sebille's attention. She opened her eyes wide at the Gheist resting on a puddle of dark blood and frowned at Slane. 

“What are you doing?” She said, walking to Slane and taking from the dragon's hands his sharp dagger.

“Are we going to let them live in this cruel condition?”

She looked at the body, the Source steam was still emanating from it. More sounds coming from the opposite corner of the room caught her attention. Inside several cages, she spotted normal people chained, moving their bodies uselessly to break those thick restrictions. “No, I suppose we cannot. Still, only kill those who look deformed. They are beyond recovery, I think.”

“What are you going to do with the rest?”

“Sandor used to believe that there was a way to heal them. He is not among us anymore, but I know some scholars that are working from where he left. I don't know. I think we shouldn't rush their deaths.”

Slane observed the corpse close to his feet and shook his head slowly, not convinced completely, but he obeyed anyway. 

They walked to the other side of the room. The people inside the cages were exhausted, but at the sight of new faces different from their torturers’, they felt revitalised, pushing their chains and crying in pleas for freedom. Three of them begged for help in a desperate way. Calming them down, Sebille and Slane slowly released them.

Some prisoners ran away as soon as their chains were removed, and only one, a consumed elf, looked at Sebille and pointed out to a side. Beside the cages, five people were nailed to the wall.

“Save them too. They are not turned yet. They were in the process to, but not completed. Break the process. Please.”

Neither Sebille nor Slane had noticed them before. The darkness of that corner hid them quite well. All of them had a collar that was suffocating them without killing them. With a gentle touch, Slane patted the prisoners’ cheeks, giving them time to slowly react. All of them looked at him in a silent beg for release with the exception of the last one which seemed unresponsive.

Slane released the people as soon as possible, helping them to rest in the ground against the wall. They still kept their original form — two dwarves, two elves and a human — despite their white brittle hair, and their consumed bodies whose skin was starting to look burnt. They were still conscious and their words made sense despite the exhaustion. 

“Thank you so, so, so much. You saved us. You saved us.” They repeated in whispers, as if it were a mantra. 

The last one was still alive — at least, he was breathing — but his consciousness seemed to have been broken. When Sebille released him, he fell on the ground as a dead body; his white eyes opened, sometimes blinking, but doing nothing else. This one was the human, consumed more than the other four; his body was emaciated. His skin had a strange condition, as if it were boiled, and several air-bubbles seemed to be encrusted in it. His iris had lost their colour, whatever it was before; same as his long hair, now white and brittle. His lips were sewed, and the lack of any reaction made Sebille wonder if he was already beyond salvation. 

“He doesn't seem to be able to recover.” She said to the other prisoners, unsheathing her dagger. 

“No. Don't do it,” the exhausted elf said. “He didn't complete the process. He has a chance. He had been like that for days before the process started. Maybe his mind broke. Maybe he can be healed.”

Sebille fixated again her gaze on that creature whose white eyes looked nowhere. It was a rag doll. “He is beyond healing,” she pressed her dagger against the human's throat, ready to slit it. 

“Wait,” Slane said, getting closer to that human. He observed his skin. “Maybe he was purged as I was once. I was like this for weeks after Radeka (*) did that to me. Maybe he can recover. With time. As I did. We are going to spill enough blood on our way out from here, giving merciful death to those without chance. You were the one who insisted not to kill unnecessarily. If there is one, a slight one chance, give it to him. This looks different to the state of the others we found in cells.”

“We were not converted yet. If there are some that can be healed, it is us,” the elven prisoner added. 

Sebille sighed and put down her dagger, moving that body against the wall. His head lolled. For a moment she thought that this human had a familiar resemblance with someone else lost in her memory. “Very well. We got all the answers we were looking for, can you carry us all to the fortress?” Sebille asked Slane.

With a grave gesture, he looked at the other silent monks, the standard ones that were standing in their opened cages, unable to move. “I'll do it. I was saved from this terrible fate once. I will honour that man's noble actions releasing as many as I can of such destiny. This, I promise. As long as I keep my life.”

Sebille rolled her eyes. “With a simple  _ yes _ was enough.” She hated so much Lizard pomposity. 

On their way back, they rescued the other silent monks locked up in the cells, killing the ones that seemed to have no solution. Carrying all the prisoners, Slane headed to the Guardians' Keep. Sebille had assumed that more silent monks in Arx would make things more complicated of what they were already, especially with all the fuss of turning them into servants. 

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Aetera(n)** [ [ Divinity Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/quest/the-aeteran/) ]: device of an infinite capacity for Source that could purge the whole world. It is said that it had been created by Eternals. 

**Bane Lands** [Rivellon, Canon]:  North of Bloodmoon Isle, place where the  _ Deathfog  _ bomb exploded, leaving a giant crater. In  [ Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746568/chapters/56726974#workskin) was where Ifan and the elves sank a lake of  _ Deathfog _ . [ [ See map ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570#workskin) .]

**Radeka **[[Divinity Original Sin II](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-fort-joy/#2801)]: Black Ring witch who had slaved Slane and purged him. She cultivated black roses. She is related to the quest [The Purged Dragon](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/The+Purged+Dragon).

**Weaver of Time** [ [ Divinity Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/End_of_Time) ] Entity living in the End of Times who chronicles History, taking a degree of control over time and History. She can weave stories and rewrite them.

**Zixzax** [ [ Lore in general, Divine Divinity, Divinity Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/ZixZax) ] : Imp that first appears in  _ Divine Divinity _ . He introduces himself as a historian, thief of the first teleporting pyramids. In  _ Divinity II _ he is introduced as Zixzax the Almost-Wise, an ancient imp historian with great mastery in languages that was trapped in Rivellon after Lucian kept the pyramids. 

  
  


**English vocabulary**

This section may be useless for a native English speaker, but just in case, I wanted to add it for all the non-English speaker readers, and also, to make sure I'm not misusing a word. 

These words are related to the anatomy of castles and will be used in the following chapters. 

**Battlement** : [[Image](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Battlement_\(PSF\).jpg)] It is a defensive architecture in which gaps or indentations, which are often rectangular, occur at intervals to allow for the launch of arrows or other projectiles from within the defences. These gaps are termed "crenels."

**Crenel** : [[Image](https://cf.ydcdn.net/latest/images/main/A5battlement.jpg)] In military architecture, an embrasure or crenel is the opening in a crenellation or battlement between the two raised solid portions or merlons, sometimes called a crenel or crenelle. 

**Bailey** : [[Image](https://cdn.britannica.com/s:700x450/85/91185-004-57CE25FD.jpg)] A bailey or ward in a fortification is a courtyard enclosed by a curtain wall. Baileys can be arranged in sequence along a hill (as in a spur castle), giving an upper bailey and lower bailey. They can also be nested one inside the other, as in a concentric castle, giving an outer bailey and inner bailey. 

[ ](https://cdn.britannica.com/s:700x450/85/91185-004-57CE25FD.jpg)

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

Tarquin and several inexperienced healers took care of the few Guardians that had survived the attack of Arx. Gathered in one room, more than a dozen of them remained in their beds, resting. 

Always high spirited, happy to feel his legs once again, Lysanthir was enjoying his recovery in bed by reading a book. From time to time, he gave a glimpse to his neighbour’s bed: Ifan. The commander was under a heavy nostalgic mood, lost in his own thoughts, resting more for obligation than his own decision. He was accustomed to working with a tired body, a total recovery was useless in his opinion. But Gareth had ordered him to do it anyways.

He hated this idle time. Having nothing to do encouraged him to keep thinking about the past, about that medallion wrapped around his neck, about that house that he, indirectly, destroyed by consuming its Source. He had lost the last things of Sandor still present in this world. Only that inactive medallion laying on his chest was all that was left of him. Silent, Ifan kept trapped in his meditations, moving his fingers over his many necklaces and producing a soft metallic ting with them.

Tarquin was three beds away from them, checking on the battlemage they had rescued. She was recovering quite well despite having partial memory loss. The hit in her head had affected her more than they wanted to acknowledge. 

Quick steps were heard along the corridor and a young dwarven man appeared at the door. “Doctor, Doctor. We need your help. The Dragon returned.” He said. 

Tarquin raised his look at the messenger and frowned. “For the eleventh time, I'm not a doctor.” He sighed in annoyance.

He was a man of knowledge, true. He could dabble in healing theory for such same reason, that was also true; but certainly his speciality was on the opposite side of the healing spectrum. 

There was a degree of irony in the way his life had changed recently. Now, he was more focused on learning healing potions and treatment procedures than researching death. But he was not going to complain. It was challenging. Besides, his time in Arx, with the presence of that wizard so willingly to help as to break rules had infused a slightly different perspective in him. 

“I'll be there in a moment.” Tarquin said. He applied the remaining medicine on the soldier's wounded shoulder and bandaged her. He raised her chin and inspected her eyes. She was out of danger. For the last time, he looked around, scanning at each of the recovering soldiers and left the room.

“Hey, Lysanthir… Do you know how many casualties?” Ifan asked in whispers, trying not to disturb the rest of the wounded soldiers.

“A dozen of Guardians and citizens.”

“Paulina Kemm made it?”

“Yes, and she is plotting something. She claimed she could not live in a slum.”

Ifan snorted, “She is free to cross the desert and return to Arx.”

“Do you think she will be a problem?”

“I don't know. Stay sharp, though. But I think the true problem was Sanguinia. Voidwoken got rid of her. It was, probably, the only blessing in all this mess, ironically.”

Lysanthir chuckled a bit, wincing immediately after, his hand pressing his abdomen. It was rare to see that cruel side of the commander, and personally, he felt it as a privilege reserved only to the closest ones. Changing topic, he focused on random chat. After all, he had to keep Ifan entertained if he wanted him to rest.

After several corridors, Tarquin entered the room that the Dwarven assistant guided him through. Inside, he found Slane, Sebille, and Gareth looking at one of the many beds. The room was full of silent monks resting in beds or standing up, absent minded. They were all the victims found in the Bane Lands with a chance for recovery, waiting for a treatment that may help them. All those who displayed a more or less lively behaviour were easy to recover, Tarquin thought. But the bunch at a corner of the room, who were as immobile as statues, probably not. Those looked as if the process had finished and they were now standard monks.

Tarquin squinted at Slane after watching the place and approached him, observing his face. “Are you wounded?”

“No, Sir.” 

With a nod, Gareth dismissed the Lizard. Slane was craving for a solitaire room away from any version of those silent horrors. 

Confused, Tarquin looked at Sebille who pointed out some beds far away. “We found some victims.” She said, “They were under the process of becoming silent monks. The new ones. No worm inside. And I collected all the reports and notes I could.” 

Tarquin's eyes shone, and his lips curved in a long smile. “_ Those _ are truly such good news...”

Close to them, Gareth crossed his arms and shook his head, quite explicit about his permission to experiment with these subjects. However, he knew that Tarquin would never listen to him.

“We need to know if you can recover some with this material.” Sebille patted a pile of books placed in a table by her side, “We have to kill them otherwise.”

Tarquin stepped forward and took a book. He read the cover blinking in pleasant surprise. “Please, no. I can try to heal them. In the worst case scenario, I can make a good use of them.” 

Sebille and Gareth looked at each other, wary. They were not so sure after Tarquin's words.

“In any case,” Sebille continued, “We had to kill some where we found them. They were lost, completely transformed, failed. We brought some strange but finished silent monks too, and others that were in the process of becoming one. They can speak to us and are aware of their condition, with the exception of one. I believe he is mostly a silent monk already, despite a prisoner telling me otherwise.”

“Which one?” Tarquin was already looking at those beds in the distance, more interested to go there and check those subjects than speaking with Sebille. 

She pointed out the last bed, “One of the victims told us that he may be in shock, more than transformed. Although, he looks awful.”

Waving his hands in the air, Tarquin put an end to the conversation and walked to the subjects. Gareth and Sebille remained closer, observing the scholar. Tarquin checked each of them, asking questions to those who were conscious and were not lost in the mist of the shock yet. 

The ones whose process to become a Gheist had not started looked fine. Dehydrated, malnourished, a bit sick and weak, but nothing than food and rest could not heal over time. The last five that Sebille spoke about had their hair white, same as their eyes. The loss of colour in their iris had left them with eyes that offered an uneasy look, a small black point on a white disturbing background. It was like a predator's eyes, extremely focussed and ready to attack. Their bony bodies were proof that they had been deprived of food for a long time, forcing their bodies to use Source as the only means to sustain them. But they could also be recovered with good care.

Finally, Tarquin inspected the last one which was lying on a bed, bare chest, his eyes open wide fixed on the ceiling, sometimes blinking. This one made Tarquin wince. His skin was covered with blisters, as if his flesh had been boiling for so long that bubbles were crystallised on it. The damage was Source-based, so scars were going to remain even though he could heal the wounds, eventually. Like the other silent monks, this subject had lost the colour in his hair and eyes, and his bones could be easily seen under that deformed skin. His lips were sewed.

“I'm not sure this one can be recovered. He... he is showing almost all the characteristics of one of these new Gheists. Burnt almost melted skin, sewed lips, uh...”

“But he has no Source,” The elf in the next bed interrupted them. She sat with difficulty on the edge, “I saw him. From a day to another, he lost his Source. The man who experimented on us was mad at him. He tortured him to reveal what had happened with his Source. It was then when he lost consciousness and became this. It was before the process started. The crazy man who made us this, thought he could awake him after turning him into one of his monstrosities. But he remained like that... a dead yet alive body.” She looked at the man on the bed. “When I was giving up... he encouraged me to go on, to endure... he helped me to resist that hell. I... I would not like him to die if there is a chance for him to live. He told me he wanted to live, that he still had many things to do.”

Gareth approached the bed and looked at the human, his chest tight by the touching narration. He always had mixed feelings when it came to killing in general, even in cases when it was an act of mercy. Killing an innocent who wanted to live was unbearable. “So, if he was in this state before the process, could it be a shock?”

Sebille sighed, “I wouldn’t give much hope on him. He seems dead to me. Like all silent monks.” She clapped and rubbed her hands, stretching her back. “Well, I've done all the intel I was asked for. I need to rest. I'm heading Arx to see Loh-”

“Nobody told you?” Tarquin said, raising an eyebrow.

Tensed, Sebille put her gaze on Gareth, who coughed before speaking. “About that. We didn't have the time.”

“What happened with Lohse?”

“Oh, she? Nothing. She is in the town, down the Fortress.”

She frowned. “A town? Since when has this Keep one?”

“Since the Voidwoken destroyed Arx. It's a precarious town.” Gareth said with his sight down. He would like better conditions to offer but everything had happened so unexpectedly.

Sebille blinked and opened her mouth slightly. “Arx destroyed? is Lohse okay?”

“She is alright. She has been working to entertain the town, to keep the morale more or less high.”

She released a sigh, “And Ifan?”

Gareth smiled. “We thought he had died defending Arx. But he is one hard to kill. He is recovering with few Guardians that survived the assault. I'll give you the details later. You can visit him.”

Without wasting time, Sebille walked away from that room of weird creatures to the infirmary, where most soldiers rested surrounded by tired inexperienced healers. From one of the open doors, she saw Lysanthir, tall even when he was sitting on a bed, reading peacefully. She knocked on the door, peeking inside, identifying the human next to the elf. Those two were always together. 

Putting down his book, Lysanthir smiled at her. He waved his hand in order to invite her in. 

“I've just received the news.” She said, standing between both beds. Lysanthir was, as usual, wearing his wicked smile, while Ifan, absent-minded, kept fidgeting his necklaces. “How bad was it?”

Ifan sighed aloud, not in the mood to speak, so Lysanthir explained briefly the whole story. 

“... and that's how we were saved by... that medallion.” Lysanthir pointed out the amulet that Ifan was grabbing dearly.

“It was Sandor.” Ifan corrected. “Even dead, he saved us. He saved me.” He shook his head slowly, disappointed.

Sebille placed her hand on Ifan's forearm, and squeezed it, looking at him with sympathy. 

Ifan did not need to say anymore. She knew he had lost Sandor twice with the fall of Arx. The real Sandor, the one made of bones and flesh, had perished a year ago but now his echoes were the ones that had been removed from this world. The small fragments of the past in which he still lived, scattered all over the city, in the Academy, in the clinic, in their house; all of them were now lost forever. All those fragile fragments of Sandor’s memories had been desecrated, as it had been Sandor's grave, most likely. Ifan could imagine Voidwoken roaming around that grave beside the monolith, looking for the still remaining Source in the ashes of that body. He barely could bear the thought of such a violation.

Maybe for an elf it was not a tragedy to let the material world erode and disappear with the passage of time. After all, elves kept their memories alive in their gifted minds. But Ifan was a human, and his monumental _ Dhaleram _ effort to keep those who had been gone for so long was taking a heavy toll on him. Human mind was meant to forget and heal. That searing burden of remembering despite everything else, that silent heroic gesture proper of _ Dhaleram _ nature, gave them the deepest respect among the elves. No other race was meant to retain memories like elves, and yet, _ Dhalerams _ were stubborn on that matter. It was an effort with an enormous cost for them.

Sebille patted Ifan's arm, giving him a small scrap of courage and support, while sharing a worrying look with Lysanthir. Ifan needed them more than ever.

* * *

Ifan was hurt and wounded while the old man in front of him was screaming in desperation, consumed by fire. One of the several tricks he had used had backfired during their fight, and the explosion that was meant to kill Ifan, had caught him instead. Now, the old man was crying out while the flames turned his image into a melted dough. Damned wicked scholar.

Ifan had thought that killing the bastard could not take more than a couple of hours. But it ended up needing almost a whole day, after dragging him to the forest of Balurik, close to the ruins. Ifan promised to himself to never kill another scholar ever, no matter how much they offered for the task. They were tricky bastards hard to kill despite their lame frames.

“Damn you.” Ifan said, wiping out the blood on his face while the carbonised body fell on the ground.

Suddenly, the remains that were turning into ashes, jerked, and the blazes rekindled with the movement. Ifan walked backwards. “What the hell?”

“What if you could bring someone to life?” Das Vapour said, smiling, as his body recovered its shape but now made of ashes instead of flesh. His burning eyes had neither iris nor pupils, his laugh allowed to show the embers inside his consumed mouth. “Who would it be?” 

Ifan gasped, and with the sound of that voice echoing in his mind, he opened his eyes, suddenly. His hands, tensed, grabbed the pillow and blankets as if his life were at stake. He looked around, desperate to identify the place he had awoken in. The Keep. He sighed, relieved. It was the Keep. 

He sat on the bed looking at his shaking hands. This recursive dream was a nuisance. He could only guess it was his mind messing with him for having dealt with too much stress without any hint of drudanae for so long. Deep down he was still wishing for a miracle, for an impossible one, but the reality, always cruel, was contradicting him. His mind was craving for something that he could only get with a hint. Or many.

He got up from the bed, opened the chest at its bottom, and took a small pipe he had kept, wondering if some day he would use it again. Delving a bit more, he found a bag full of wrapped drudanae. More than enough for weeks. 

Hiding the elements in his bedclothes, Ifan went out of his room and walked the corridors silently, going up the stairs. He headed to the highest battlement (*) of the Keep, a place where he could be alone, high enough to enjoy the view of the nocturnal landscape and open to the dark sky. He sat beside one of the many crenels (*), lighted up the pipe, and took a deep puff. The chill breeze of the night moved his long hair, cooling his body. It refreshed him, despite the intense pain of Source ashes still present in each muscle. He took the amulet among the many necklaces he had, and observed it on his palm, remembering all that he could about that man's life, keeping him alive a bit longer.

His eyes turned wetter. He was more than aware of how much of his own soul would pay to keep him alive. It was terrifying, but unavoidable. Humans were not meant to remember all their life. It exhausted them, it made them crystallise the pain, putting more stress than their mind could endure. Forgetting, on the other hand, was natural. Forgetting the dead was the only human way of healing.

* * *

She ran along that awful dimension. Its flesh flowers had bloomed fully, exhibiting the limbs of creatures long time ago eaten as part of their pistils. However, the fetid stench was not more intense than the last time she visited this realm. The sky was red; where Void had been peeking into this dimension time ago, now it was pouring blood from the skies. The weave of the Veil had been ripped open.

After long paths of dark landscapes, Malady stopped in front of the throne, wasting no time in changing her mask to reveal her demon side. The creature sitting there scrutinised her while a wicked smile, full of pointy teeth, stood out from its deformed face.

“My dear, you have returned sooner than I expected.”

“We can’t waste time on useless chit-chat. I need information.” Malady said.

“You know everything comes at a cost.”

She did. She had almost forgotten that part too. If circumstances could be different, she would have avoided to ask him yet another favour in such a short time. But the events were turning dire. 

She looked at the creature straight into its eyes. They had thousands of souls trapped, screaming, asking for help, as they hit the inner walls of the creature’s eyes with their tight fists. Billions of memories were trapped there, forever, keeping the demon alive. She hardened her soul, as she always did, and allowed the creature to look into her mind, picking whatever memory it fancied. Some lover less, another warm childhood memory gone; the quest for Divinity, forgotten. 

Feeling violated and twisted, Malady sighed, tortured, as her chest grew in ravishing desires and perversion. The need for blood and slaughter filled her mind for a second, dazzling her, until her last bit of self-restraint leashed the demon inside her. She was losing her precious balance. 

“I need to go to Zixzax's dimension. I need to find him.”

The creature smiled, not as it usually did. There was a dark glint in its eyes that was proper of those who will not speak a secret that may avoid a calamity. She feared she had paid beforehand for an unfair deal, but there was nothing more to do. 

* * *

On the Rivellon мап carved table, several figures shaped as Keeps were spread all over its South and East, representing each of the Guardian posts that were still standing. Voidwoken figures were in zones where the swarm had been so intense that retaking them was impossible. In the North, the Lizard figures kept advancing to the East day after day.

That day, they had to remove the Keep figure on Arx and replace it with a Voidwoken one. Everyone present during the swap felt the despair beneath their skin. The fall of Arx was much more than just a lost battle, it was the raw confirmation that worse times were coming.

Around that grim table, Gareth and the highest ranked soldiers from Arx — Ifan, Lysanthir, and DeSelby — kept observing the figure. By their side, Fane and Gratiana were sitting, wearing human disguises. They had been entrusted to research on Source and Voidwoken, and after finding some interesting results, they rushed to the Arx academy. However, to see the city in its current conditions took them by surprise, and assuming the worst scenario, they headed immediately to the Guardian Keep, in order to bring the word of the city's tragic destiny as well as their results.

Attentive, Tarquin was standing beside the map, arms folded. Since Sandor's death, he had turned into the most resourceful scholar of the Guardians, checking everything related to Source, magic and, ironically, healing. Now, he was the main scholar of the Keep. He took a figure of a small house and placed it where Sandor had died. Ifan clenched his jaw.

“Did you pass by this zone?” Tarquin said in the exact moment he put that figure on the map, his eyes on Fane.

“There was a shack time ago. But when we were there, we only found scattered wooden pieces around. The consequence of bombs, I imagine.” Fane said, as Ifan looked down, discreetly caressing the amulet pending from his neck.

Tarquin and Lysanthir shared worried looks. “Are you sure there was not a shack there? A Dwarven woman?” Lysanthir insisted. 

“I know. What do you think of me? A drunk mortal that can't distinguish a house from rubble?” Fane said, a bit irritated.

“Did you find the black mirror in it? Or something?” Tarquin insisted.

Fane shook his head. “Not even pieces.”

Tarquin squinted his eyes and then let escape a sigh of worry. “So, if there was a chance for that mirror to give us an advantage, it's lost forever.”

“That thing is cursed. Better to lose it.” Ifan added in a bitter tone. 

“Not if it was taken by the Lizards,” Everyone looked at Tarquin whose words tensed their faces, “What? An explosion on the shack and you can't find a piece of a killing tendril miasma-oozing mirror? Is it not strange?” He folded his arms, “Anyway, let's hope that thing kills as many Lizards as possible. And once again, I've been right. Not to say I've told you so, but... _ I've told you so_. That artefact was a waste of time and had no chances to be useful.”

Ifan removed the small figure of a house on that map with the sad certainty that Sandor's death had been in vain. One more time, he blamed himself for being so weak about keeping that blasted mirror in Arx. He must have destroyed it back then, when they were still travelling in the Lady Vengeance. Damned waxing moon of his. Damned Sandor's stubbornness.

“We lost another potential resource.” Gareth pressed his nose bridge then, folding hands, he looked at the guests. “So, we need to plan how to attack these Voidwoken.”

“Are we planning to retake Arx?” Lysanthir said, eyebrows shot up, “Because the last time I was there, I was almost killed, and three of my four most powerful battlemages died. I don't know if we can control _ that _ amount of Voidwoken.”

Gareth looked at Ifan, as if he were the last word on the matter. With a solemn gesture, Ifan nodded, giving to Lysanthir's words its true weight. They had to plan something but retaking Arx was out of question. That city was lost. It did not matter that the Voidwoken activity had receded since their exodus. The creatures had already spread thousands of eggs in the city's rubble. And where eggs were laid, thousands of Voidwoken defenders would appear as soon as they touched some of them. Returning was a suicidal mission.

“Very well, so we need to focus on keeping them around Arx, far away from this Keep. And we need to plan an escape in case... _ things go South_.”

“As an escape, I suggest the use of the Flying-ship. It is operative, and Sanders is working in more units. In a couple of months, if we can get enough resources, we will have a fleet. We can always use them to evacuate people to a safer place. So far, Driftwood is a good option. We only need to convince Guardian Thrash to accept our people in case of an emergency.” DeSelby said. 

“Leave it to me. He'll help us. He is serious about this,” Ifan added, knowing the old Dwarven man’s answer beforehand since they knew each other for a long time. 

“Since I see we have reached an agreement, the main task to keep in mind is how to make these Voidwoken retreat in case of heading here. I think we need to train a special group of Guardians, and redesign new techniques taking into account the Keep's strategic advantages.” Gareth said, looking at DeSelby, Lysanthir, and Ifan. “I count on you to do that. Think about this during these days.”

The paladin and the elf nodded, while Ifan only kept looking at the map, exactly where he had removed the figure of the shack. He frowned, his lips were pressed in a fine line. 

“We need to improve Sanders' defence system in the Keep,” Gareth looked at Tarquin. “And we need to understand how this sudden attack can be contained. You need to research those cracks.”

“And I hope you are not asking me to have results in a couple of days... It's not as if cracks in the interweave of space-time were so easy to study.” Tarquin sarcastically said.

Gareth rolled his eyes, then he observed each of the presents, “The meeting concludes here if there is no more to say.” 

“In fact, there is still something to discuss.” Tarquin said with a flick of his wrist and his index finger up, “I've been treating silent monks these past few days, and I think I can partially recover their personality in order to make them more... _ responsive. _ Or at least, enough to command them.” Ifan frowned and glared at him, full of mistrust. “Using my research, combined with the late Mestre's, I can bring some life into these creatures and make them listen to me. I'm not saying this is something we _ should _ do... but _ maybe... _ if we are lacking of suicidal soldiers to clean possible Voidwoken coming to kill us, _ maybe, just maybe-” _

“Are you sick?” Ifan interrupted Tarquin's words with his deepest and bluntest tone voice, his eyes open wide, and his pupil contracted, fixated on the necromancer. “That thought is disgusting. We brought the silent monks here so they could have a chance to heal, not to become slaves again. We got rid of that shit when damned Sanguinia died in the swarm. Now are you proposing to use them as slave soldiers?”

“What a better use? Keeping them walking around the fortress is not a stylish decoration. Creepy at least. And it's _ me _ who is describing something as creepy. Go figure.”

Ifan voice turned hard, his command evident to everyone, “For fuck's sake, you twisted scholar of the damn. My people can fight thousands more Voidwoken than those silent monks, because they have brains and reasons to fight and come back. They are smart, resilient, and will retreat if things are going to result in more corpses. What can those silent monks do?”

Tarquin smiled wickedly, and from below his jacket, he took a small box that Ifan could recognise at the instant. It was that strange device that was usually accompanied by a collar that could leash a Gheist. “If the General allows me...” Tarquin said with a cocky tone looking at Gareth, who simply nodded. 

With a movement of his hand and a small charge of Source into the box, Tarquin activated the device. He walked confidently to a side of the room and opened the door. Behind it, an emaciated silent monk was standing still. 

“Show your powers without harming anyone or anything” Tarquin's voice was soft. 

As soon as his order was formulated, the silent monk burnt itself into raw Source and spread wild blazes around the room. Without touching any of the witnesses, it appeared behind each of them, in a fraction of a second, displaying an unbelievable speed. As a last demonstration, the creature removed everyone's weapons and let them fall on the table. None of the presents knew when or how their weapons had been taken. 

“This is a monstrosity,” Ifan whispered horrified. 

“_ This _ is one of the new Gheists we fought months ago at the entrance of Arx. They are nothing alike the old Gheists that were powerful in comparison with normal silent monks, but these new ones-” Tarquin blew air, shooting up his eyebrows for a fraction of a second, as if pleasure had just stricken him, “-these are out of any measure. I like to think of them as almost mini-gods,” He patted the creature's shoulder, and all the Source-fire covering its body disappeared, leaving the absent creature there, standing with its white clouded eyes and its sewn lips. “They are quite interesting soldier, don't you think?”

Gareth looked down. “We can't use them like this.”

“Why not?” Tarquin added, pointing to where the Gheist was. “We _ can't _ save them.”

Hurt by the obvious, by what he always believed it was impossible to do, by that innocent trust he wanted to give to Sandor's words, Ifan stood up from his chair and walked back and forth around the table.“We always took care of these silent monks wondering if we could heal them, not use them like the Magisters have done for decades. Are you insane?” Ifan stopped his pace and glared at Tarquin, “Your job was to heal them, to find a way to fix them, not to turn them into our weapons.”

“Such a big speech. Too much drama.” Tarquin rolled his eyes and then put both hands on his own chest, “Look at me, you know me. I have no match at commanding death bodies. However, when it comes to healing... It's not my strong ability. Everyone here knows this. I _ can't _ heal them. But what I can do is _ this.” _ He pointed out the Gheist _ , “ _ And _ this _ is useful for our current situation.”

“This is something that would make Sandor sick.” Ifan added. 

“Sandor is not here.” Tarquin added. 

Those words, despite being the bare truth, were always an insult to Ifan. He strode towards Tarquin, and despite wanting to grip his collar, he restrained himself and just looked at him straight into his eyes. “If you can't heal them, kill them. Give them a merciful death instead of this slavery. They do not deserve this.”

“And what do you know?” Tarquin’s words made Ifan's eyebrows shoot up, surprised by the insolence of the necromancer, “You see, this Gheist-” Tarquin walked towards it and patted its cheek, “-was someone I knew.” 

Everyone in the room opened their eyes wide. 

“He was a dark magician of the Black Ring. He liked to torture his victims before turning them into ghouls. Tell me he deserves a better fate,” Tarquin said with a wicked smile on his face. He was not lying. Could he? “Many of these silent monks were important magicians that not necessarily were on our side. If Renegade Magisters are crafting these weapons, or Black Ring, or maybe Lizards are the ones doing it, they are transforming their own members... I hardly imagine a virginal witch of the forest who only cares to grow crops for a nearby starving town, ending like this.” Tarquin patted the Gheist's shoulder again. “We are talking about dark magic applied on the most powerful magicians _ they _ have. That's why it's easier to control them than heal them. They have dark magic running in their blood, stuck in their flesh. Before and after becoming _ this. _ These Gheists are _ not _ , mostly, innocent ones. You _ cannot _ obtain a powerful creature like _ this _ from a random farmer. Are you all understanding what I am talking about? If this train of thoughts helps you with your annoying consciousness problem... you're welcome.” 

Ifan growled softly and looked at Fane asking with only his eyes if what Tarquin was saying was remotely true. The Eternal only shrugged, giving to the necromancer the credit that he needed under Ifan's eyes. After a long and deep sigh, Ifan turned over his heels and looked at Gareth. “This is so sick. We... we-we can't.”

For the first time in his life, Gareth wished Malady could be there, to accept the proposition without staining his morals. The last conversation he had with her, she had been more than clear about these potential situations. He had to twist his ethics in order to fight the twisted world they were facing. Moral was not something that was going to save them, indeed. However, to see that monstrosity, that power so raw and brutal on their side, seemed to be much better than just killing all those silent monks out of pity. But it was so hard to decide. 

“If they are going to die anyway, if they can't be healed, then make them die while being useful.” Lysanthir's words, cold and raw, echoed in the room. Everyone looked at him, a bit surprised, but deeply relieved for speaking aloud their own thoughts. “Don't get me wrong. I _ don't _ like this. But I don't like the dire times we are living either. I almost died defending Arx. I know that fighting this madness with only Guardians is not enough. And those creatures...” He looked at the Gheist, serious, wincing,“... If I were turned into _ this _, and my only two options were dying by a merciful hand or dying in a battle defending my people... it's clear to me what option I would pick. All of them are deadly weapons. We need that.” He whispered the last sentence, lowering his face to focus on the table, ashamed and guilty.

A lugubrious silence filled the room. The tiredness of accepting more and more the wicked and twisted solutions were making them retch internally. This was a war, Ifan recalled. This was truly a real, raw, heartless war. Like the one he had survived time ago.

“Can we take some days to think... about this, about the strategies ahead? Honestly, I think we are quite overwhelmed by the situation. And before choosing wrongly, we need to think.” Gareth said, giving himself a moment to breathe slowly. 

Tarquin smiled. 

Hastened steps along the corridor reached the meeting room. The doors were opened, and a recruit asked permission to speak to Gareth. He came announcing the arrival of a Dwarven that claimed to be their ally. Curious, Gareth asked him to let this guest pass. For everyone's surprise, a small dwarf walked in, wearing a confident smile, and stood at the frame door. 

“I guess I came in time.” Infirma said. 

“Mhm. Look what the Voidwoken brought.” Tarquin smiled at her in greetings, as the rest sighed in relief to see that, at least, they had one dead less to mourn. 

After leaving Arx, Infirma resided in that shack for a while under the permission of Lysanthir. Before the bombs were dropped and the Voidwoken took control of the zone, she had left it, carrying with her the black mirror, still a work in progress. Of course that information made Ifan less happy than before, but he did not complain; considering the dire situation they were facing, nothing could be wasted now. Not even that damned black mirror. After a humble welcome, Infirma was immediately disposed to help Tarquin to recover the rest of the silent monks that still had a chance and to continue her research on the black mirror if she considered it could provide something more than troubles.

Sick of all the tools that the Guardians were choosing to fight with in this war, Ifan left the meeting room without saying anything else. Once out, he looked at his hands. They were slightly trembling. He slowly walked along the corridors of the enormous Keep, heading towards the stairs up. He needed some fresh air. 

In the highest point of the Keep, he could see the sea at his East and the desert of Stormdale at his West. Watching the North allowed him to have a vague image of Arx, or at least, what had left of it. Some blurry Source flashes in the distance showed its random activity of Voidwoken. Probably some damned eggs hatching.

In a corner of the battlement (*), he removed a stone tile uncovering a hole where he used to hide his new bad habit. A pipe and a wrap of drudanae. He sat at the edge of the crenel and smoked while fidgeting his necklaces. The sky was still blue, as the night was falling slowly. The days were getting shorter and shorter, enjoying that landscape during daylight was going to be impossible soon. He sadly smiled, remembering how nothing lasts forever. 

When his mind was clearer and his hands got rid of that pesky trembling, he stopped smoking and left the battlement, not without hiding his pipe first. This place in the Keep was his little shelter, a corner where to hide and think; it was _ his _place.

* * *

“This looks awful.” 

Ifan's footsteps stopped in the middle of the corridor, as the dwarf's voice reached his ears. 

“I tried to do the same as I did with the rest, but he has no response. One of the rescued prisoners told me that he may be under a shock state... but it's strange, indeed.” Tarquin's voice followed. 

Ifan walked into the room, curious. The scholars looked at him for a brief moment but continued with their talk, ignoring his presence and focusing again on the body laying on a bare metallic stretcher. Lysanthir was there too, silently observing the same patient.

Ifan approached them, his attention suddenly caught by the creature's face. He winced. That monstrosity had white clouded eyes, open wide, displaying its obscene blindness fixated at the ceiling. Those dry, colourless lips were sealed with a thick thread. Its long hair was also white and brittle. Its body, emaciated, looked like the result of decades of starvation. If it were not for its chest movement, Ifan would have assumed the creature dead. It was the white shadow of what it may have ever been once. This was the consequence of a massive purge in one sole person. Poor thing, Ifan thought, death seemed to be the only solution.

“If the process causes such shock, it should be more common to see this outcome in the rest of the silent monks, don't you think?” Lysanthir said. 

“Maybe this one is like the first failed attempt that still is living... or well, kind of. Maybe the rest of the monks before him simply died. Or maybe he is one of the first transition experiments from the old-made Gheists to these new ones.” Infirma said, “A failed draft.”

Ifan frowned at the dwarf, a bit of repulsion tinging his gesture. How could she say that to a man stuck in the middle of the process of dying? _ Failed draft_. 

“I don't think so. Old versions of silent monks are made through a surgical intervention with a magical worm. This is an entirely new process. I don't see the transition. This thing is a by-product of a massive purge, causing the emptiness of the body, so they can fill it later with more Source than their body can handle. It's like...” Tarquin squinted his eyes, “...like a failed attempt to make a living Aetera(*).”

“Who, in their sick mind, could do this?” Ifan winced, “This is the Black Ring's doing, right?”

“It could be the Lizards', too.” Tarquin said. 

Ifan shook his head, slowly. “I don't think the Lizards could go so far. They live up to expectations of their excellence. Using this crafted tool, so twisted, is not their style.”

Everyone looked at the body in silence, as Ifan tilted his face a bit. There was something familiar in this one, or maybe it was just the fact that all the twisted silent monks ended up looking the same. 

“Any clue about who he was?” Ifan said, “Marks, scars, or tattoos?”

“Impossible to know. His skin has this condition.” Tarquin lifted his own sleeve and showed them his long-lasting illness. Ifan was not surprised to see the burnt-boiled texture that was covering his body. He had seen it several times, in Sandor's home, when the necromancer used to visit him looking for private healing. In contrast with Tarquin’s calm face, Infirma raised her eyebrows. 

Tarquin added, “If you are deeply purged, you may develop this condition. It makes your skin look like melted and boiled, any mark on your skin disappears under this messed texture. If it's healed properly, some remnants of the original mark can be seen later. But you need to heal it constantly. And _ no _, I'm not good at healing this. I barely can slow down mine. So, no. We cannot heal him and guess who he is.”

“Those eyes...” Ifan approached the body, looking over it, trying to find the pupil in those clouded eyes, but it was useless. 

“These new Gheists are blind,” Tarquin added. “Blind and with burnt voice chords too. I'm not sure if they can hear.”

Ifan blinked, “But the demonstration early today, it looked like that thing listened to you.”

“It's hard to guess. I couldn't heal any of those yet to ask them personally. But I suppose they may not hear either. However, the connection with the leash allows them to listen to my orders. They are Source-linked to their master.”

Full of pity, Ifan looked at those dead eyes that sometimes blinked. They were the Void itself, the absence, the nothingness. After a moment, he realised that the silent monk was blinking often. 

“Is that normal?” Ifan said, pointing at the creature's eyes, his blinking faster and faster. 

“Is that a seizure?” Lysanthir frowned. 

Instinctively, without even thinking twice, Ifan took the silent monk's jaw and opened it despite the sewing lips, ready to put some fabric inside and prevent further damage of the creature's tongue. But the movement made its lips bleed, and the monk’s body jerked violently. Awaking in the middle of an unexpected situation, the creature bit Ifan's finger — the closest thing he felt around its painful lips — and pushed him away. Ifan yelped.

The silent monk jumped off the stretcher and tumbled into a chair. He kept crawling on the ground backwards — or what he perceived as such— until a wall stopped his movement.

Desperate, pressing his back against the wall, the silent monk moved his lips as if he were screaming. Then, he touched his throat surprised that there was no sound coming from it. His eyes, under that clouded layer, looked around, never resting in one place, wanting to see but only receiving darkness. The creature became more nervous, and tears started to fall as he put a hand ahead, moving his arm in the air in order to find something that was not emptiness. With another hand, he kept pressing his throat. Some strange sounds came from it finally, more like coughs, but nothing as a resemblance of a word. 

The desperation in that creature repulsed Ifan._ This was what they were going to use to fight the Voidwoken? _ He wished that creature to be dead. 

“Okay, okay. I need to know if you can listen to me. Move your head as a yes or no.” Tarquin said. 

That voice made the silent monk more nervous. Sliding along the wall, he climbed a nearby bed, trying to run in his darkness. He fell from it, as his legs became tangled with the sheets. Crawling, he reached Ifan, who stepped back, keeping his distance. Lost, the silent monk simply burst into tears there, pulling his own hair, trembling, crying uncontrollably, hopeless. Ifan was completely disgusted with the image. He could not believe this was going to be used as a weapon, not even Lucian had lacked such scruples. These silent creatures were living the most terrifying hell, completely alone, absolutely isolated in themselves.

On his knees, the silent monk cried, sometimes moving his hands in the air, wanting to touch something. _ Anything. _ Putting aside his repulsion, Ifan crouched in front of him and tried to touch that burned hand, but he stopped himself. He remembered Sandor's unstable powers when his mind was not clear. In those cases, sometimes, touching was the worst thing he could do. 

“Hey, no foe here. Calm down. We want to help you. Can you answer our questions?” He said instead. As it was natural, his calm voice stopped for a moment the tempest that was torturing that silent monk's mind. The creature took some seconds to breathe and wipe out his tears. He tried one more time to speak, but only his lips moved. Ifan could barely read them. The thread sealing them allowed not much movement. 

“Okay, let us help you to put you in the bed again. You are ill.” Infirma said. 

With not much care, Tarquin helped him. “I guess you can listen to us, right?”

The monk nodded. 

“You can't speak nor see. Can you feel the touch?”

The silent monk extended his hand and took Infirma's. He touched her fingers and approached her hand to his stomach, his knee, and his chest. Then he nodded. Once more, he tried to speak, moving his bleeding lips beyond the thread restriction. He winced in pain. 

Lysanthir took a scalpel from a table nearby, and commanded the man to be quiet, removing the thread. Some tears of pain jumped from his blind eyes when Lysanthir pulled the thread, sliding it across his lips. Despite the sharp discomfort and the wounds, the creature kept on moving his lips. 

Now Ifan could see it clearly. “He said _ thank you. _”

“Oh, can you read lips? Wonderful.” Tarquin said. 

“Only the basics.” He shrugged. 

“What's your name?” Tarquin asked the silent monk, giving him a piece of paper and a pencil. 

Enthusiastic, the monk tapped the pencil on the paper, several times, as if he were thinking. He showed some attempts to write something, but they were always nothing more than that, attempts. Nothing came to his mind. 

“Okay. It's okay. Do you barely remember who you are? You must be a user of magic.”

The silent monk stayed still for a long moment, the muscles of his face tensed, revealing that despite his effort, there were no memories at all. He moved his hands, touched his ears, moved them in front of him, twisted his wrist, fingertips on his lips. 

Tarquin frowned. “Mhm. Well, you _ do _ know something.”

The only thing that seemed to _ remember _ was an old system of signs used by scholars. Such detail, however, was an answer in itself. To know that communication system meant that this amnesic monk had been a scholar before being victim of this unfinished process. Lysanthir, Tarquin, and Infirma could read the fast movement of hands that the man was doing, explaining his last memories with detail: the despair he felt when he was under torture at hands of a mad man whose face could not remember either. All what he could recall was part of the long torture process he endured before losing consciousness with the last massive purge to his body. 

It was known that purge could deeply affect a person's Source to the point to harm their soul. Souls were made of Source and were also the essence of a person; their personality, their memories, their emotions were all imprinted in it. Although the flesh carried part of the experiences, the soul was what contained most of it. If the purge was violent and extensive, it was not rare to understand this amnesia as another consequence of such a terrible process. 

Now, this monk was a whole different challenge for Tarquin. Not completely lost to force him into the leash, not completely safe to recover him unharmed. What were they going to do with this poor thing?

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

****Aetera(n)****[ [Divinity Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/quest/the-aeteran/)]: device of an infinite capacity for Source that could purge the whole world. It is said that it had been created by Eternals. 

These comments may be useless for a native English speaker, but just in case, I wanted to add it for all the non-English speaker readers, and also, to make sure I'm not misusing a word. 

These words are related to the anatomy of castles and will be used in the following chapters. 

**Battlement** : [ [ Image ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Battlement_\(PSF\).jpg)] It is a defensive architecture in which gaps or indentations, which are often rectangular, occur at intervals to allow for the launch of arrows or other projectiles from within the defences. These gaps are termed "crenels."

**Crenel** : [ [ Image ](https://cf.ydcdn.net/latest/images/main/A5battlement.jpg)] In military architecture, an embrasure or crenel is the opening in a crenellation or battlement between the two raised solid portions or merlons, sometimes called a crenel or crenelle. 

**Bailey** : [ [ Image ](https://cdn.britannica.com/s:700x450/85/91185-004-57CE25FD.jpg)] A bailey or ward in a fortification is a courtyard enclosed by a curtain wall. Baileys can be arranged in sequence along a hill (as in a spur castle), giving an upper bailey and lower bailey. They can also be nested one inside the other, as in a concentric castle, giving an outer bailey and inner bailey.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

After a long day of hard training and a refreshing shower, Ifan walked up the many stairs of the Keep to reach _ that _ place. The only one that still had a worthy landscape to offer, healing quietness, and a personal shelter where he could stay alone surrounded with his warmest memories. However, he halted just after the last step of the stairs, glaring at the intruder. 

He sighed in distrust. That silent monk, blind and mute, was there, sitting on _ his _ bench, in the middle of the battlement, with a white cat on his lap. Arhu. The wizard was taking pleasure in the small desires a cat-man can indulge himself: a constant gentle caress over his whole body. The silent monk was holding his cane too, his face up to the sky, as if he were able to see anything beyond, living the moment alone, as he could not do in another way due to his isolation in his own body. The sound of Ifan's steps made him lower his head and sharpen his ear. 

Annoyed, Ifan walked to his secret corner without saying a word, removed the stone tile where the drudanae pipe was hidden, and sat far away from that monstrosity, at the edge of the crenel. He smoked. 

From time to time he looked at that silent presence, as disturbing as any silent monk despite knowing he was a bit more human than the regular ones. Now, his lips had healed, or at least, as much as his messed skin allowed it. His eyes, colourless and covered by that white layer offered an empty sight. It had been a couple of weeks since he had awoken, and nothing new from his past had come to his mind, according to Tarquin's reports. The man remained lost in his blank memories. The purge probably had done a harm impossible to repair. 

Despite the fact that he could not remember any name, he chose one from a foggy image that, as he explained to Tarquin in sign language, appeared in his mind when he felt lonely. A man sat in front of a window, looking at the sea through it, absent minded. A man whose name was _ Greg _ . It was a scrap of a memory that, according to Infirma, showed once again he had been a scholar, secluded in an academy, surrounded by people as lonely as him. That was how that monk ended up choosing _ Gregorio _as his new name, even though he knew it was not his for sure. 

The monk sniffed the air and frowned. 

“What? This is my spot, lad. If you don't like it, leave,” Ifan said, tired of this new routine. The silent monk had decided _ that _ spot was _ his _ favourite one too, and it was more often than not that they had been sharing those long silences there. 

It was annoying. Very, very annoying. Almost every day, when Ifan came to take his hint of drudanae in order to calm his growing despair inside, he would find Gregorio in the battlement bench. He tried a couple of times to shoo him away, claiming that this spot was his, the only place in the Keep where he could be comfortably alone. But the silent monk always came back after a couple of days claiming to have forgotten the situation. A crappy lie, of course. 

At some point, Ifan had given up. Gregorio's silent company or Ifan's complete loneliness were not much different. 

The previous day, Ifan had stepped into the new Keep's laboratory, a place dedicated exclusively to Infirma and Tarquin's research focussed on the black mirror, the recovery or control of the silent monks, and the analysis of the nature of their future enemy. When he entered that place, eager to complain to Tarquin about Gregorio's disturbing presence in his favourite spot, he found the monk tied to a bed, crying, while Tarquin was using some charged gems on his chest. The sound of pain being drowned in a victim's throat was barely matched with the tension and pressure that Gregorio did on a piece of fabric stuck in his mouth. Ignoring the reason for that torture, Ifan yelled at Tarquin, asking for an explanation. 

“This is the way to heal him. This is part of Sandor's research. _ Healing is usually a long, painful process _.” Tarquin said to him. 

And with those words, Ifan could not do anything else but to observe. Gregorio was suffering in his body, the reverse process that had made him reach his silent condition. Ifan could not help but pity him. 

For that reason, despite the discomfort that Gregorio's presence inspired in him, Ifan stopped shooing him away. The monk's feverish body was probably cooling down in the highest point of the Keep, letting the still fresh breeze clean his nose of fetid and acrid potions that he was often forced to drink. 

Ifan took another puff thinking while observing the immobile creature. Despite its silence, Gregorio's presence was hard to ignore. His wide open white eyes were always attracting Ifan's. They were a window to his soul. A purged soul. A devastated land. A desert. An attraction proper of an abyss, that whispers in the back of the head to jump into it. 

He clicked his tongue, knowing he was pitying too much. And pitying people never ended well in his experience.

“How was today?” Ifan said, looking at the direction of Arx, taking another puff. “I mean, the treatment.” He looked at him, focussing first on his disturbing eyes, as always, and then looked at his lips. 

The silent monk raised his eyebrows and blinked several times. A gesture more conditioned by a past habit than a useful one in his current state. He put his cane on his lap as the cat left the place slowly. Then, Gregorio moved his hands, here and there, touching his cheeks, sometimes the shoulder, sometimes the top of his head. 

“Wait, I don't know that... language.”

Gregorio stopped immediately, and smiled slightly, a bit ashamed. Ifan was surprised by that gesture. The first time he saw him smiling. Or doing something that looked like smiling.

“Try moving your lips. Pretty slow.” A puff after the other, Ifan could make some sense of the things he explained. All of them were terrible. Tarquin was torturing him. “I see. Well, enjoy the breeze.”

After some minutes of silent company, Ifan hid his pipe under the tile and left the battlement not without patting amicably that silent companion. He felt the sharp bones under the clothes. If Gregorio's emaciated face was terrible to look at, he could not imagine seeing his body. Ifan took a moment to look for something in his inner pockets and dropped it onto the man’s lap. It was something wrapped in paper. 

“It's a candy. Eat it. It will improve your mood after dealing with that crazy asshole.” Ifan said, surprised by the smile he saw in Gregorio, again. A genuine one. 

Maybe these dark times were lacking these gestures that made humans what they were. The desire for better times, that were reflected in that smile, hit Ifan off-guard, feeling it familiar. He wasted too much time observing it, as some memories of a warm beautiful past washed him over. He sighed loudly, the drudanae was messing with him, as it was starting to do more frequently the more hints he needed daily to stay sharp. But what he could read in Gregorio's lips was not a product of his intoxicated mind. That was for sure.

_ Thank you _. 

Ifan smiled at him, despite his blindness, and left.

* * *

“Do you want me to come to life? Would you pay for it no matter the cost?” Sandor said, riding Ifan slowly. Ifan could only moan, his hands pressing Sandor's thighs in delight. 

“Whatever... for you...” Ifan said in a ragged voice. Sandor lent all his body weight on his hands, pressing Ifan's chest, making the penetration deeper as the speed increased a little bit. 

“I want to go inside you,” Sandor whispered, triggering a shiver in Ifan, whose hips twitched a bit to deepen the pleasure of both. “I want to take you.”

In the middle of the lust and the proximity of the climax, Ifan opened his eyes and frowned a bit, trying to see Sandor's face. The thrusts were more intense each time, his breath was hard to keep, and his hips helped the process to accelerate into the end. Pleasure was clouding his mind. 

“You know I like you inside... always...” Ifan said, thrusting into Sandor.

Suddenly, without even knowing how they changed their position, the following thrust went into Ifan's body. Surprised by the unexpected sensation, Ifan grabbed the blankets — Sandor's thighs were not handy anymore — and his fists tensed, drawing his head back into the pillow. Surprised by the sudden and complete penetration, Ifan grunted a bit, closed eyes, as he held the discomfort. He breathed in and out, relaxing his back and spreading his legs a bit more, while Sandor continued the thrusts, increasing their rhythm. Sandor's hands were now around his waist, fingers nailing his skin while pulling him in to make the contact deeper. 

In no time, Ifan moaned louder than he wanted to, feeling feverish, his toes curled as his hands hauled the blankets. His most primal needs mixed with emotions and memories of a living Sandor were overwhelming him. The pleasure kept rising from places beyond mere flesh. 

“C-come here,” Ifan whispered, stuttering with the thrusts, his whole body shuddering as he kept releasing short moans. He tried to reach Sandor's arms to pull him over, to feel his light weight on him and increase the mess of emotions he was feeling at that moment. Sandor lent on him, allowing the rhythm to become faster and faster. Ifan embraced him with his legs, pressing Sandor's hips as his arms wrapped around his neck. Everything was rushing; his moans, the movement, the suffocating heat in his body. They were close to the peak. 

_ Sandy, Sandy, Sandy. _

His moans sometimes stopped amid, sometimes mixed with that blessed name, making his voice more pitched, more ragged, more accelerated. He could not think straight. He did not want to. The climax was almost there. 

“What if I come back?” Sandor whispered in his ear, and Ifan could feel he came in that moment, bittered by the whisper of an impossible dream yet burnt by such deep desire in his soul. He drowned a long moan in Sandor’s neck, all his body tensed, pushing with his legs Sandor's hips to never let him escape, embracing him as if it were the end of the world.

“Would you give it to me?” Sandor said. 

Ifan awoke agitated in his bed. He sat immediately. His breathing was a mess, as well as his sleep pants. He rubbed his face, angry with his body that had left teenage times long ago for this kind of show, but then he remembered parts of that dream, wetting his lips. He still could feel the fever all over his body, the longing, the lust, his neediness. Maybe he needed _ that _. 

He lay again, and sneaking a hand in his pants, he reached what had been so twisted in his dream. 

* * *

“Is this really necessary?” Lysanthir said while observing Tarquin who was introducing a pliers inside Gregorio's mouth. 

The elf was in a corner, his back lent against the wall, waiting for his turn to be checked. He still had wounds on his legs that were not closing since the last attack of Arx. Cursed damage was the toughest one to heal. 

The silent monk grunted, resisting whatever Tarquin was doing in his throat. However, there was not much real resistance he could do. Leashed to a stretcher, Gregorio had a big device inside his mouth that forced him to keep his jaw wide open, allowing Tarquin to work deep inside his throat. The scene was more proper of a centre of torture than a room dedicated to healing.

“If Sandor's reports are correct, certain degrees of recovery could be acquired despite Source-based damage. Also, Infirma gave me that.” Tarquin tilted his head towards a small table by his side where a set of potions was placed on it. “She did a restoring mix for Source wounds. I'm eager to test it.”

Lysanthir frowned. “Wait, and are you going to _ test _it on him?” 

“No risk, no gain.”

“But...”

Lysanthir's words were interrupted when Gregorio pushed the leashes desperately and tears ran down along his cheeks while his grunt became a drowned cry. 

“Now, now, don’t be over-dramatic. Endure a bit more.” Tarquin said. He took one of the small potions with one hand while the other pressed the pliers inside Gregorio's throat. “I'm not sure if this will be a bit uncomfortable,” he warned. 

The comment only made Gregorio's clouded eyes open wide, and a desperate guttural sound that seemed to be a _ no _ was repeated frantically. Ignoring the resistance, Tarquin poured the potion. Gregorio shook violently. 

Letting the monk struggle with the pain and the inner fire that the liquid was simulating in his throat, Tarquin stepped away facing Lysanthir's incredulous gesture. Gregorio tried to whimper, but the sound was drowned in liquid, as his chest shook with coughs and pain. His eyes were tightly shut, crying, twisting his hands, and barely kicking due to the leashes. 

“What are you doing?” Lysanthir winced at the tortuous image of the monk.

“Healing. I know, not a nice picture. But I can't heal this by laying on my hands. I’m not a Source healer.”

“What did you do?”

“Destroying what's left of his useless vocal chords, and trying to regenerate new ones. Artificially, via potions.” Horror was all over Lysanthir's face. “Let's take a moment, while he deals with this.”

Both men sat around Tarquin's desk. The necromancer gave his back to the leashed patient, ignoring his spasmodic movements, his retching sounds, and his grunts unable to turn into screams of help. From a corner of the desk, the necromancer took a bottle and poured its contents in a cup. He drank it. “Do you want to? It's wine.”

Lysanthir shook his head, unable to believe Tarquin’s attitude when at his back he had a man suffering like that.

“Your loss. Very well, let's see your wounds meanwhile,” Tarquin put the cup on the desk and dragged his seat toward the elf, waiting for him to show them. 

Unsure, the elf looked at Gregorio and removed his pants, standing in front of Tarquin. His long legs had many wounds and scars, but the recent ones were still suppurating. 

“Mnhn. I see. There is still too much curse in these. Good luck that we have our star healer around once again. Nyw!” Tarquin shouted out while Lysanthir tilted his head. 

From the other side of the room where most patients in recovery were sleeping, a tall hooded man walked into Tarquin’s studio. By the shape of his body Lysanthir recognised him as an elf.

“Yes, Sir?” 

His soft deep voice sounded familiar to Lysanthir. 

“This man needs your healing. His wounds on his legs are not getting sealed, and they are festering. Curse or Source damage.”

The man removed his hood and only then, Lysanthir and the man looked straight into each other's eyes. 

“Ah, it's you.” Lysanthir smiled wickedly. 

It was the old elf that had been healing tough cases in Arx since Sandor's death. He was a man who claimed to be learning Source magic but it seemed as if he had always known about it. His skills were far from average. This elf had been considered dead after the fall of Arx, since his face never appeared when they were counting the survivors in the Guardian's Keep. DeSelby claimed that he had never entered the Keep with the exiled groups during the assault either.

“I didn't know you survived.” Lysanthir said.

“I'm a lucky man, _ D'alen. _”

With a shadow of a smile, the old elf knelt before Lysanthir and placed his hands on his knees, spraying his dark red glowing palm all over. The feeling of healing was immediately followed by a sensation of fire.

“Did you know each other?” Tarquin asked after a sip of wine. He still did not glance — not even one — toward Gregorio, who was shaking on the stretcher. 

Lysanthir looked at the older elf, expecting the explanation to come from his mouth, but the healer remained silent. So Lysanthir spoke, “We just met a couple of times in the Academy, when I was looking for Sandor.”

“Ah,” Tarquin said, uninterested. He drank the last bit of wine in his cup and then took a potion from his drawer. “Use this,” he said, giving the small bottle to Lysanthir, “Apply it on the wounds twice a day, every day. Come to me when you finish it.”

Nyw stood up, proudly observing his work on those legs. The pus had been removed completely, and only time was needed for the damaged bark-skin to harden into scars. Cursed wounds, like Source damage, were impossible to heal without leaving marks.

A bit absent, Lysanthir wore his pants and nodded silently. He took the flask, his attention split between the healers and the horror that the patient behind them was suffering. 

“It's going to get worse, so don't fret.” Tarquin added. The elf winced, unsure of the meaning of the warning.

“If I may... I would like to return to the patients’ room.” Nyw said, lifting his hood once again and covering his face. Only then Lysanthir realised why the elf had been so low profile. The Keep was a place smaller than Arx, and the infirmary inside the Keep was too close to the rooms of the highest ranks of Guardians. 

“Sure, my friend. Go do your magic there.” Tarquin moved his hand in a shooing gesture.

When Nyw crossed the door, a Gheist appeared in front of him. With some soft words that neither Tarquin nor Lysanthir could hear, the elf commanded it to stay out of the room and remained still beside the door. 

Lysanthir observed that creature. It was the Gheist that had been presented as a potential weapon during the meeting. Then, he looked at Tarquin and spoke. “Is that true?”

“Mnh?” Tarquin raised an eyebrow after pouring more wine in his empty cup. 

“Did you know that Gheist? I mean, the person before turning into that thing.”

Tarquin scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Lysanthir snapped up his head, blinking. “What?” 

“I had to said _ that _ so they would relax their stupid moral. Ifan was ready to kill every monk if it were only his decision. Morality sometimes is a stone in the middle of the road. You have to pass through that road, you have no options. So, instead of blowing out that stone, people try to surround it, pretending it was never there. Why bother? We need to pass through anyway. Besides, if we don't deal with such stones, someone else will, eventually. We are only leaving the problem to another one. We have to be responsible people, don't you think?”

Those were big words coming from him, Lisanthir thought, and then he observed the Gheist, his eyes jumping from it to Gregorio, still worried by his jerks. “So, that Gheist could be a virginal witch who makes crops grow for a starving town?”

“It could be my mother. And it doesn't matter. What's done is done. You said it yourself. If that Gheist were you, and we can't heal you... you would prefer to fight Voidwoken with the last bits of your persona. If there is no other solution for them, let's pick the most useful one for everyone. They will find peace at the end, after all. We all will eventually do.”

Lysanthir looked down and sighed, “Not everyone shares my perspective, and probably not these monks. They may think differently.”

“These creatures have no perspective at all.”

“HEeeelb!” Gregorio screamed, a high-pitched ragged cry mixed with a guttural noise. He was sweating, his open white eyes fixated on the ceiling, while his shake, more and more violently over time, made the metallic border of the stretcher hit the wall. Now the man was becoming noisy.

Quick steps running along the corridor stopped in front of Tarquin's studio, and out of the blue, Ifan appeared at the door. 

“Tarquin, for the Goners' sake, why every time I walk near your studio I hear nasty soun-...” Ifan's words were suddenly lopped off, as he widened his eyes at the man convulsing on the stretcher. “What in the Void is-” but again he could not finish his words.

Gregorio's neck ignited in Source, and flames crossed his throat, emanating from his mouth. His tears and guttural sounds turned desperate, kicking and slamming the stretcher as much as the leashes allowed him. 

Finally, Tarquin looked at the patient over his shoulder, and took another sip, “Good. It's working.”

A heartbreaking scream echoed in the room and then, all the intensity of the Source disappeared, leaving Gregorio on the stretcher, silent, looking lifeless. A green steam emanated from his neck and lips. Annoyed, Tarquin pressed his ear with a finger, hurt by that last scream. Certainly this man had been _ too close _ of becoming a Shrieker (*).

“By the Fallen, is he dead?” Lysanthir asked. 

Tarquin finally left his chair and approached the patient. He inspected the inside of the throat and huffed. He unleashed the monk, moved his body to rest on his own side, and tied it again to maintain the position. With a small towel, he cleaned the mess inside the mouth of the unconscious man and removed the device that was forcing him to keep his jaw open. A cooper cylinder was placed in Gregorio's mouth to let the excess of blood drain. It did not take much time to see the blood dripping.

Relieved for the silence, Tarquin sighed and turned over his heels, finding Lysanthir and Ifan looking at him with horror. 

“What? Healing is neither easy nor pretty, my friends.”

He returned to the desk.

“Is he dead?” Ifan asked. 

“No. He is alive.”

“Why can't you just put him into sleeping before torturing him like that?” Ifan frowned at him. 

“Because it doesn't work that way. The suffering increases the stress levels to deadly limits activating his Source core, an interesting mechanism that lets the Sourcerer give a little extra more of Source. Or at least, it should do it. This increase in the pool can be removed and located in another place that needs healing. The recovery is more complete. Or it should be. I was not sure if this was going to work considering this monk seems to have no Source at all. But it seems he has it somewhere. I still need to understand that. He was supposed to be fully purged...” He muttered to himself, tapping his chin with a finger.

Ifan looked at the emaciated body. It was a rag doll. Where was the respect for life in this? He rubbed his face. That damn monk was exactly on the line that divides the monks that Ifan could kill without hesitation, knowing they were beyond salvation, and an ill person with a rare chance of survival. He could not remove that slight chance. Ifan had lived all his life thanks to _ that _ slight chance. If he had done everything to restrain himself of pitying him, he could not do it anymore at that sight. Poor damn thing. 

“This doesn’t look like healing at all.” Ifan winced. 

“Oh, no. This is how it exactly looks like. Healers are witness to this kind of scene all day along. You all just see the end of the process. Or the light cases in which a single laying on hand fixes the problem. Real healing is this.” He removed the cylinder, it had stopped dripping. “But I tell you, I'm surprised by his physical resistance. That's a rare feature for a scholar. Resisting physical pain is not our strongest point.”

Lysanthir moved his eyes from Gregorio to Ifan's hands. He frowned at the constant trembling of them. “Are you okay?” He said, moving his chin slightly toward Ifan's hands. 

Caught by surprise, Ifan nodded and grabbed his wrist. “Just excess of training. Well, if everything here is... more or less normal,” He looked at the monk a bit longer and released a tense sigh, “I'll go. I have things to do.” 

Without more explanation, he left the place knowing that Lysanthir's eyes were still following him, piercing him. Lysanthir shook his head slowly, sad. 

* * *

In the middle of the night, while most people were sleeping inside the Keep's walls, a strong blow was heard in the main meeting room. Alerted, all the vigilant Guardians ran along the corridors with weapons at the ready. The sound had not been missed by Ifan either, who jumped from his bed as he heard the rushing steps. He wore the lightest part of his armour and joined the run with sword and shield in hands. They kicked the door of the meeting room and yelled a strong halt, ready to kill the intruder before any suspicious movement. 

“Ugh. Relax. It's me.” Malady said, standing up with difficulty, her palm towards the Guardians in order to stop their movements. She displayed a tired shape, dark circles were under her opaque eyes, and her legs seemed weak. She observed every person in the room, until identifying Ifan, to whom she spoke, “Call everyone. Arhu mainly. Urgent meeting.”

The rest of the Guardians returned to their positions, and in less than an hour, all the highest ranks of Arx were present in the room, yawning and rubbing their sleepy eyes. Arhu did not mind changing his shape and sat on the table as a cat. 

“I have bad news,” Malady sighed, resting her back against the chair. A grunt escaped from her lips before continuing, “Zixzax has been murdered. We can't count with his Source and knowledge.” 

Arhu blinked, standing on the table, “How? Who? When? Who could have done it? Nobody knew about him, and even in that case, how did they reach him?”

Malady rubbed her chin with a finger. “I've been thinking about this for a while. The way Arx fell was strange. Those attacks done by unusual Gheists before the swarm… They knew where the defence system was more vulnerable. The swarms appeared inside the city, instead of its surrounding. Someone clearly knows what we are doing.” She stood up and walked some steps around, observing everyone. “We may have a spy.”

Ifan crossed his arms, frowning.“Well, DeSelby has been reporting that the movement of the Lizards in the North was too fast for being normal. We considered the possibility that, maybe, Lizards have flying machines too, but we couldn't conclude for sure that this means we have a spy. Only the highest ranks in the Guardians and the scholars had access to those blueprints. I can't think of anyone suspicious. They may have found other Eternal blueprints.”

“Couldn't it be a coincidence? The movement of Lizard armies can be their own doing. They always excel in their designs. They may have designed their own flying ship.” Lysanthir said. “The fall of Arx was a product of a second attempt. Remember the first one was repelled. We all know that when Voidwoken fail once, they throw everything they got in the second opportunity.”

“But you can't explain Zixzax's death as a coincidence. He had been living in his own dimension for centuries. Not only almost no one knew his coordinates, almost nobody could have access to it.” Malady explained.

Zixzax's death was another hard blow to their plan. If the original schedule was already weak, acknowledging that these powerful characters could barely equal the power of the gods, having two pieces less made the general picture even more complicated. 

“Then, how could anyone have killed him?” Ifan asked.

“It has to be someone who is working with demon partners, maybe a Black Ring member. No one but a demon can access that dimension. And still yet, they need to deal with the Veil.”

“But the Voidwoken are their own faction. They don't join forces with demons. At least, they didn't when we fought them before,” Ifan said, remembering Adramalik's personal schedule which had nothing to do with the God King’s. 

“Maybe some things have changed? Maybe some demonic group helped?” Malady rubbed her nails against her chest and observed them.

“So, your alliance with the demons is going backwards. Great.” Ifan huffed.

“I've managed a strong alliance with a King of Nemesis, but he is not alone. There are many kings and queens, and the demonic power is always a source of raw competition. There is always a random demon too chaotic for even its own kin. Demons are not so different to... well... Rivellon’s creatures. Go figure.”

“But demons don't see the Child as something to be afraid of?” Lysanthir said.

Malady sighed. “If I were them, I would, but they may think that they can get some benefits from this chaos. It's not the first time that demons see things from a different perspective.” Malady rubbed her face and rested her back against the chair, looking at the ceiling. She was so tired of this. She sighed. “Do you have words about the Dragon God mission?” She looked at Ifan.

Before Malady went to her journey seeking Zixzax, they had sent Sebille and Slane to Orobas Fjords (*) looking for Vacca (*), who — according to the myths — was an ancient dragon who had the ability of shifting into an elf. His power and knowledge could be useful in this fight. Their travel was not going to spend the usual amount of required time since Slane would fly all over Rivellon to reach the other side of the continent, but it was impossible to estimate how long they would need to stay there in order to track the truth behind the legends and meet the God. If such a possibility still existed.

Ifan shook his head, “Nothing yet.” 

“I don't understand something,” Lohse said, taking advantage of the silence, “Weren’t Demons supposed to stay far away from our dimension because the Veil? Wasn't it a protection?”

“It is.” Malady answered, her face softened at the sight of that woman. 

“So, Zixzax's coordinates may be known but still yet you need access to demons. How do you do that? How any person in this realm can ask a demon, _ hey friend, can you give me a lift to an imp personal dimension? _”

Malady half smiled. “You need demons living here or connect to them through possessions. That's how they can...” She blinked, taking a long pause, “They can get close to this realm without facing the destructive consequences of the Veil.” 

The silence only pronounced the worry already transparent in Lohse's face. “Possessions.” Lohse looked down, opening her lips without saying any word further until she swallowed. 

“What's the matter, Lohse?” Malady said.

“Can they have information from hosts without the host knowing it? Even if the host is not completely possessed, but has been once? you know.”

“It's a possibility.” Malady said, squinting at her. 

Lohse placed a hand on her mouth, looking around. “I think... I think I've been leaking information.”

“What?!” Everyone said at the same time. 

“I've been feeling odd lately. I thought it was all this mess, I mean, look at us! Hey, we need to save this and all the worlds from a massive destructive entity that only leaves emptiness everywhere. And the best we can do is to gather a bunch of old people, and throw a party to see if all of them, together, can resist the strongest guy ever, aka the God King. I mean... sure, one can feel a bit overwhelmed. Especially when you see a Voidwoken mob ravishing the small city you are stopping by.” She giggled nervously. 

Malady frowned at her. “Darling, what do you exactly mean?”

“Well, the oddity was not a simple feeling. I've been having weird dreams. And by weird, I mean, _ weird. _ Like butterflies speaking to me to give me awesome gifts, like no way I can have the power to destroy all demons in the world, right?. Even less if it's given by a butterfly. _ A butterfly? _ Or a manager asking you to perform the best show ever in your life only if you _ give it to him _ . And I was _ no way I'm not going to give you anything, you pervert _ . And he was, _ no, no, it's not that. It's the meaning of your existence _ , and I was _ what?.... _ I know, weird...”

Squinting, Malady scratched her chin, “They asked you something in return?”

“Yes, but it's always an _ 'it' _. I usually wake up when I'm going to offer something.”

Malady opened her eyes. “Do you remember giving something?” 

“I don't know. I always wake up after that.”

Malady sighed long and deep, leant on the table to have her head in her hands. The white cat shook his head slowly. 

“We need to find Jahan too.” Malady said, worried. “I bet this is not a random dream, this is a demonic influence from the other plane, gathering information, collecting energy, or something else. Do not accept anything that comes from your dreams. They are stealing something from you. You were possessed before. Even though you are healed, possession leaves soul scars. You are like a beacon to demons. You are more vulnerable to them than any other person, Lohse.”

“Wow. So, it was me after all,” Lohse said smiling nervously. 

Ifan looked at her gravely and then spoke. “Did you know the details of the coordinates of Zixzax? And when and how Malady was going to approach him?”

Lohse looked aside, up, and down, thinking. “No.”

Ifan folded his hands and let his forehead rest on them. “It was not her.”

Malady snapped her head at Ifan immediately. “What are you talking about?”

Ifan silently nodded. 

Malady frowned at first, not sure to get the subtle message, but then, remembering Ifan's _ Dhaleram _ condition, she huffed, “Oh... wonderful.” She said. What could be worse than leaks of strategic information from one of the main people responsible for Guardian strategy? “We need to find Jahan immediately.”

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Orobas Fjords** [ [ Rivellon, Canon ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Orobas_Fjords) ]: West-South of the map of _ Divnity II, Ego Draconis _ . It is a complex range of mountains in which some dragons or dragon-lover communities can be found. [ [ See map ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570#workskin).]

**Shrieker ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Shrieker)]: Canonically, they were Sourcerers once, now perverted by Magister’s twisted procedures. They are incredibly powerful, too many times stronger than any silent monk. During the first part of the game we found them restrained in wooden crosses, but some can be used as bodyguards. Dalis The Hammer had a couple of them as such. 

**Vacca** [ [ Divinity II: Ego Draconis ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Vacca)]: He is a Dragon Elf wizard that appears in Divinity II: Ego Draconis. In this game, Dragons were the creators that crafted the world as we know it, and lived with the Elves when they were the only race ruling Rivellon. That's why in this game the first Dragon Knights had been elves. I like to take this concept and make Rivellon confuse it with other myths, blurring the true identity of Vacca.

  
  



	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

A small stage had been built in the entrance of the Keep. There, Lohse and several artists displayed their skills in order to boost the morale of everyone, encouraging the endurance in the common folks as well as in the soldiers. 

Ifan watched the show for a while, enjoying Lohse's songs and epic narrations of heroes that were too perfect for being themselves. It was interesting the power that such apparent innocent action had. A whole mob could switch their mindset just by a sad song, or could be set alight with the euphoria that a good tale of an epic battle could inspire. 

However, his attention was not completely focussed on the show since, out of the blue, he had seen a war owl crossing up the sky and heading to the main Guardian tower. Was it bringing news? He had to check it. 

He left the massive audience and went to the main council room of the Keep. There, he found Gareth reading a scrap of paper, while the war owl he had just seen a moment ago was resting on the edge of the window. Ifan approached the animal and scratched its head gently. He smiled, understanding the grateful answer of the bird after such pleasant reward. Then, he looked at Gareth. 

“Some news?”

“Yes and no. It's Sebille. They are good. Still nothing about the dragon god.”

“So this girl had to fly all the way across Rivellon?” Ifan's eyes fell on the bird once again, “You are a good girl. I'm going to give you an extra.” He whispered close to the owl and lifted his sleeve to find an inner pocket from where he took some seeds. It gave some to the bird, which cooed in response.

Gareth put the scrap of paper on the table and rested his back against the chair. He observed the commander, the tiredness that Ifan had been displaying for months was accentuating now his dark circles under his eyes. He had also lost weight despite keeping his muscular frame. Gareth was aware of the heavy pain that Ifan was hiding deep into his soldier image. Gareth had seen him before, how he was before; he had seen _ them. _

He remembered when the Emperor of Rivellon gave them the power to finally set the Guardians as a new institution free of the remnants of the Magisters. He had seen the way _ they _ looked at each other sharing the commanding power in Arx, the way _ they _ whispered in the middle of the meetings, the way their hands sneaked behind their backs, patting and caressing dearly. There was something incredible caring and warm every time he saw _ them _. It did not matter if they wanted to keep it secret due to the complex political situation of Arx. It was too much caring to be hidden completely. 

And despite the fact that Ifan had lost that, he embraced his duty as an old soldier, replacing that warm and caring gift shared for years by that stubbornness that kept him going on, no matter the pain he was dealing with. That was something that Gareth, despite their differences and disagreements, made him respect Ifan deeply. 

“How are you doing?” Gareth finally said.

Surprised by the unusual question, Ifan stopped scratching the owl and turned to see Gareth. He approached the table, crossed his arms and looked down at the map full of figures of keeps, Voidwoken, and lizards. 

“Dutiful answer, or honest answer?”

“Honest one.”

Ifan sighed loudly. “Being responsible for screwing up our strategy is not a great feeling to have. Watching all those silent monks in the clinic, being prepared by Tarquin to become weapons... it doesn't help with the feeling.”

“I know. I'm not convinced of using them yet.”

“But you are taking your time to decide.”

“It's not easy, Ifan. You know what it means to be at the head of the command. How heavy it is to make a decision, sometimes.”

“I know. But there are so many monks or Gheists or whatever they are. When did we get so many?”

“They were the rescued ones by Sebille and Slane. Tarquin had recovered those who had a chance. The ones whose process to become a silent monk was never completed are living in the town. Trying to get a normal life, considering under what kind of circumstances we are. The rest of them, Tarquin is just making sure that they are responsive to command. And then, there is that one, Gregorio.”

Ifan shook his head. “I can't believe what Tatquin is doing with him. It's torture.”

“But he is an asset.”

Ifan squinted at him, sceptical. “Tarquin told me he has no Source. And he is blind and can't speak.”

“The man knows a lot.”

“But he doesn't remember anything.”

“According to Tarquin, he doesn't remember the hows and whens, but he knows the what in many subjects. Source related, mainly. Tarquin asked me permission to share most of our secret information about Source and other lines of research with him. It turns out that Gregorio must have a scholar background focused on studying Source. ”

Ifan wrinkled his nose. “So convenient.” 

Gareth tilted his head, half smile on his lips, “What? Do you think that poor man can be an enemy?”

Ifan could feel the slight shaking of his hands again. He pressed his crossed arms to keep them at bay. “Demons are stealing information from my dreams.” He looked through the window, “The daylight is getting shorter and shorter. An entity that nobody knows except a half-demon and a shady necromancer is coming to consume us all. We killed our gods. Lucian was everything but a saviour.... I think everything is possible. A spy pretending to be a lamb is almost cliché. Right?”

Gareth smiled, looking down at the table. “That goes too far. Malady must have noticed any hidden intention otherwise. She noticed Lohse's possession in the same moment she saw her. She is half demon, she knows her kind quite well. Trust in her guts.”

Ifan did not need to say anything else, he had made up his mind to watch that strange silent monk closely. “Maybe I'll be sure once Jahan comes back and checks on him. Until that moment...I'll keep an eye on him.” 

Gareth shook his head slightly. 

True to his word, and without more information to share, Ifan left the council room and headed straight to the clinic. After that terrible scene of Gregorio being tortured, Ifan had been visiting him every day during a whole week of recovery. He used to find him in the bed, sometimes sleeping, in pain. Other times, awoke, but unable to move his body. Tarquin had forbidden him to try to speak, until he would give him permission. His weak body and his burnt vocal cords needed more time than the average to heal. 

Sure, Ifan could mistrust the man, but that was not reason enough to treat him with gratuitous cruelty, especially if there was a possibility for the monk to be a normal human scholar. Enough hostility Ifan had shown him the first days he found him in the battlement, annoyed with his disturbing presence. 

Ifan stopped in the middle of the corridor. He checked his hands extending his arms in the air. The shaking was now a bit more pronounced. He could only delay the hint for an hour. Moving his head to both sides, a chain of cracking sounds followed, ending with a deep sigh. Then, he continued his walk toward the patient rooms. 

He peered inside and found Gregorio's bed empty. That was a good sign. He walked in, silent, so he would not bother the other patients, and went to Tarquin's studio, just crossing the other door at the end. As usual, Tarquin was reading books and discussing with Infirma stuff related to Source. 

Ifan did not look at the scholars immediately. His attention had been caught by a hooded figure in a corner of the studio. Tall, he was giving them his back, and by the movement of his arms, he was mixing potions. 

Tarquin raised his chin and spotted Ifan. “Good day, do you need something? Do it quickly please, we are in the middle of an important conversation.”

“Uh... just where is Gregorio?” Ifan said, his eyes immediately jumping on Tarquin. 

“I don't know. He tends to walk around, stretching his legs. But he has to sleep here, so you can check on him later. Now, if you excuse me.”

Without giving Ifan any room for an extra question, Tarquin tapped a part inside the book he was holding and lent it to Infirma, while talking in a strange language. Scholar language or whatever. 

_ Showing off of scholars _, Ifan thought. He retraced his steps. He bet it was not going to be complicated to find the man. His white cane was easy to detect without a sharp ear, always hitting everywhere along his path. However, after looking for several places of the Keep, Ifan did not find him. Only one last place was unchecked, and considering the state of his hands, he went there immediately. 

He smiled in satisfaction when he reached the battlement and felt fresh wind on his face, while the last weak sun beams warmed his body. Nature was always a caring mother. His smile broadened when he saw Gregorio, sitting in the middle of the battlement bench. His white phantasmagorical hair peacefully moved with the wind, shining in an unexpectedly healthy gleam under those sunbeams. 

Glad, Ifan approached him, making sure his steps were heavy and roughly slid on the floor. He patted his shoulder. “Good to see you, lad.” 

Immediately after, Ifan went to the corner of the battlement and removed the loose tile, taking his drudanae pipe. He sat in front of Gregorio. The man looked exhausted, if that was possible for a silent monk. The bandage around his neck showed that the Source fire had damaged more than the body could heal. Ifan could not avoid worrying about him despite having his suspicions. Maybe it was his guts; they were not twitching, telling him to stop getting close to him, quite on the contrary. 

“I see you look better. Much better than when Tarquin put you under.... his treatment. It looked painful.”

“It was.”

Ifan widened his eyes, his lips slightly open. Then, his lips curved into a big smile, almost happy. A strange feeling that seemed almost like an intruder in his soul. 

“Oh, for the Fallen, you can talk.” He whispered. He put the pipe aside and sat beside the monk. 

Timid, Gregorio smiled too. “I can, finally.”

Ifan felt a sudden urge to hug the small man but he restrained himself. So long it has been since he received good news of anything, that this small spark of joy had overwhelmed his system. Instead, he patted the man, gently, feeling those pointy bones beneath his clothes. 

“We can talk more often now. Without relying on your lip reading skills. You are not so good at it.” Gregorio said.

Ifan laughed softly with good cheer. But his smile disappeared soon. That voice was horrible to hear. Husky and broken, trembling at times. It had a shade of decay, as if the purge that this man had suffered had imprinted its destructive mark even in his voice. It was also obvious that some sounds were still hard to produce, because at times, Gregorio's voice suddenly lowered as his face winced.

“My bad.” Ifan said.

Looking up and ahead, blinking in the darkness of his clouded eyes, Gregorio turned serious, “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For everything. Your company, your conversation, your kindness. I was really glad for your visits when I was in bed. The pain was... nhg.”

“No problem. I'm proud of you. You are a hell of a warrior, and Tarquin is a demon.”

Gregorio shook his head, smiling. “He is not.”

“Are you defending his process? Because that torture...”

“It was needed. It worked, right?” Gregorio coughed.

“Hey, calm down.” Ifan rubbed Gregorio's back and observed his profile closer. His white clouded eyes kept looking at his front. His lips were healed now, yet small marks of the thread that had sealed his lips for so long remained. His cheekbones were prominent and his skin had a shade of unhealthy grey that made it impossible to guess its original colour. 

“I look like a monster, right?”

Ifan straightened a bit, removing his hand on Gregorio's back immediately. Surprising perception. How had he done it? _ Ah _. The direction of his breath, of course. Ifan looked at another side and took the pipe on the bench, remembering that he was still in need of some hints. “Sorry, I thought there was some familiarity in your face, with the sun hitting your cheeks I thought... well, just that.” He made it up, out of the blue.

“Is there a chance for you to know me? I mean, before losing my memories...”

“Uh...” Ifan gave a long puff and sighed at the same time he exhaled the smoke. That had been a bad excuse. Now he had to continue with it. He hated to give Gregorio false hopes about his identity. “I don't know. It's hard to say. The purge in you, lad, changes all monks in a similar way. I'm sorry.”

Gregorio lowered his chin and grabbed his white cane. “Thank you for the honesty anyways.”

Ifan winced and looked at him over his shoulder, taking another puff, not sure if that was a sincere comment or a sarcastic one. 

Ifan remembered the first time he saw Gregorio, wanting to kill him and put an end to his misery. He kept wondering if deep down, that monk would have chosen death over this torturous state of life. Of course Ifan was not going to ask that insensitive question right there, not after such a small yet unbelievable improvement in the monk's weak body after a week of recovery. Surviving that torture was a whole feat already. 

They talked about silly topics; the last rumours in the town, a funny anecdote of Ifan, the description of a good dish. And that was how, among chuckles and calm silences, they spent almost the whole afternoon talking and joking for the first time. Ifan could not remember when it had been the last time he shared so much good calm cheer. The dark times that they were living had reduced those small moments.

When the sun disappeared, not further in the afternoon, they left the battlement and headed into the Keep. Ifan had to return to perform some duty checks on his soldiers, and Gregorio had to rest again in his bed. Ifan was sure that the shared moment was going to give them a good morale boost. 

* * *

Three weeks after placing the missing person notice in every Guardian Keep or post, they found Jahan. He had been trapped in a demonic ruins placed in the desert of Yuthul Gor (*), and rescued later due to a Guardian's group exploring the area looking for Voidwoken activity.

After receiving a brief report of the situation, the demonologist did not waste time and travelled to the main Guardian's Keep, close to Arx. Knowing the sad news of Sandor's death, the man accepted Gareth's proposal of being part of the Guardians' external help. He was more than eager to contribute, not only because Rivellon was at stake, but also because he wanted to honour all those who had rescued him from Adramalik's cell years ago and destroyed the demon itself, saving the world from a terrible evil. 

He immediately became part of the group of scholars in the Keep. Although his knowledge was not exactly the most suitable for what Tarquin and Infirma needed to research, his small contributions helped them to develop a different point of view. To think that Source could be related to the vital energy from which the demons fed on could not be such a crazy idea to explore.

“Hi there, long time no see you, friend.” Lohse said, spinning in front of Jahan. “So? Your verdict?”

The demonologist tilted his head, a hand gently pulling his beard. 

He walked around her, “You are fine, Lohse. There is no demonic grip around your soul. Yet. The scar is there, it is easy to see. If demons pull their way into this world, you will be in great danger. I'll prepare some talismans and spells to protect you.”

Then, Ifan took Gregorio from his arm and gently pushed him making him stop in front of Jahan. Malady squinted, aware of Ifan's suspicions about that lame creature. Her breathing became tight for some seconds. 

The demonologist wrinkled his nose at the sight of such a decayed human. After Ifan retired himself some steps away, Jahan inspected the fragile man thoughtfully by casting some spells on him. Of course, the first thing that would catch Jahan's attention was Gregorio's eyes. Nobody was immune to that disturbing blankness. Those open wide, white and clouded windows were almost hypnotic. Jahan touched the monk's chest and closed his own eyes, projecting into his soul. Then, he shook his head slowly. 

“Clean. Extremely clean. As if this man has no stain or past.”

Everyone nodded, as if that description was too obvious. “He was purged and almost transformed into a silent monk. Tarquin had been healing him.” Ifan said. 

“Ah, that explains the immaculate feeling. A monk, indeed.” Then, Jahan squinted at Ifan, walking around him. He sniffed over Ifan's shoulder, and hummed, as if he had understood something that had been bothering him for a long time. 

“What?” Ifan said. 

“He is a fighter, my friend. He always smells like that.” Tarquin said, while Ifan gave him a dark look. Malady smirked.

“Says the man who smells to decay and blood.” Ifan replied.

“Occupational hazard.”

“Same here.”

“Enough,” Jahan said. “Have you been sleeping with demons?” Blunt as ever, Jahan said aloud as if it were a common thing to ask.

Ifan snapped his head to Jahan, open wide eyes, frowning,“What? No.” He took a long moment, thinking while his sight lowered to the ground. Then he blushed. “No. No that I've known.”

“You reek of demon essence.”

Malady raised an eyebrow, half smile. “Look at our wolfy Ifan.”

“Impossible. I've done nothing with anyone.” He looked aside. He hated to expose these personal aspects of his life, “I've just been having... dreams.” He sighed, “With dead people. Dear to me.” The smirk in everyone's face faded slowly, understanding the situation. “I was asked to give something in return to make someone come back from death. But I always wake up before any exchange.”

Jahan sniffed, “They see your weakness, your pain. They are reaching to you too deep. They are taking from you not only information of your mind, but also vital energy. Don't let it happen again.” 

Ifan looked down. If only he could have control over that. But even in that case, would he have to renounce the only means he had to keep Sandor alive?

Ifan sighed, “I'll try.”

“You are an easy target for them thanks to those disgusting elven traditions you follow.” 

“Hey.” Ifan frowned at Jahan.

"Do you have an idea what the demons are up to?" Malady asked, walking close to Jahan, arms crossed.

"It's always hard to say, but considering all what you told me about the current situation of the world, it is nothing good."

* * *

Retired far away from the training area, Ifan sat on a bench, recovering from his last failure. Sparring with a fellow Guardian had shown his lame current state. In less than a couple of sways, Ifan lost the grip around his sword, and it flew far away. The adversary placed the point of her sword on his throat, finishing the match with his defeat. It had not been the most encouraging image to share with the rest of the soldiers. 

He opened and closed his fists; they were trembling. His hands had become harder to control over the days, and his grip in the sword, weaker. He needed a hint of drudanae. Again. Although he had been trying to delay it. 

The previous night, victim of another of those demonic sweet nightmares, he had lost sleep and had abused of drudanae, trying to forget the gentle figure of Sandor, alive, living with him in a small cottage in the middle of the forest, having small adventures here and there. The emotional stress of the scene had awoken him before any deal could be suggested. It was for the best despite interrupting such a worthy dream. He became completely aware of the devastating effect that Sandor's image had on him. An effect that could only be managed with drudanae.

Although he never spoke about it, he knew his recreational use of the herb was not going well. He had walked this path down once. Every week, his body, hands, and mind, asked for it, for a bit _ more. _ The hint size had been increased so progressively that he did not realise that he was taking three times more than he used to smoke when Sandor was around. 

_ Sandor _ . He used all his will not to think of him. But at the same time, with all that loneliness and needs, how could he not do it? He was raised among elves and turned into a _ Dhaleram; _honouring the past of the fallen ones, keeping the good, the bad, and the everything in his mind was part of his core. 

He always complained about how other humans never understood his strong attachment to the past and the memories. They were oblivious of the immense frustration that his tongue caused to him, unable to feel and see the essence of living creatures. The only time it brought him happiness had been through a magical gift from Sandor.

_ Sandor _. Again. He was the only human who understood him. Or at least, he was close to it. For that reason and many others, even though Sandor was not an elf, Ifan wanted to honour him.

Ifan had kept Nueleth alive in his own flesh despite all his human limitations. And he had done quite a good job. But Sandor was resulting too much to keep. Maybe it was the fact that Ifan was getting older, and the accumulation of memories were becoming a heavy weight to lift on his shoulders. Maybe the weight was harder on his heart than on his back due to some layers of guilt. Or maybe it was the dark times surrounding them, which promised a senseless future, and any sacrifice to keep memories seemed purposeless. In any case, he was failing as a _ Dhaleram _ . As Sandor's _ Dhaleram. _

He sighed and observed his hands. More things to his list of frustrations. They had been trembling during the whole training. Grabbing his own wrist and pressing its sinews used to work at first, but now that was becoming insufficient. The only thing that could stop that annoying shaking was a hint. A heavy hint.

Lost in his worrying thoughts, Ifan did not notice the presence of someone else walking around, until something softly hit his legs. A white cane. He looked up, finding those disturbing eyes, open wide, clouded. 

“I’m sorry...” The man said in that voice proper of a ghoul raised from his tomb. 

“Nevermind.” Ifan replied. 

“Ah, it’s you, Ifan. Good.” Gregorio smiled a little bit. A little bit that was contagious enough to make Ifan smile back, sad.

“What are you doing here? This is a training field.”

“I was looking for you. I need your help. Would you guide me to the market? Here, in the downtown. Inside the walls there is a shop I need to go.”

“What for?”

The monk stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. It seemed that long sentences put some stress on his still hurt vocal cords. “Tarquin’s orders. I need to buy some herbs and more supplies for his potions.”

Ifan's eyebrows shot up. “Why can’t he go instead of sending a man who can’t differentiate potatoes powder from flour.”

Gregorio frowned, offended. “Excuse me, Sir, but I _ do _ know how to distinguish both. I may not see, but I still can touch and smell.” He put his arms akimbo, and the posture, so full of energy, made Ifan smile broader, “Besides...” He hunched his shoulders a little bit, “He is also doing this as an excuse for me to walk around and be… a bit more human.”

Ashamed for his previous comment, Ifan pressed his wrist to reduce the trembling in vain and sighed “I'm sorry,” Ifan stood up from the bench and offered his arm. “Alright. I’m all sweaty, hope your mighty nose doesn't get offended by it.”

Gregorio chuckled. He moved his hand in the air, looking for that anchor in the darkness of his vision, and found a trembling hand. He frowned, and Ifan, quick as ever, moved it in a snap, and put his arm in front of him instead.

“Are you okay?” Gregorio said, placing his bony fingers around the curve of Ifan's elbow.

“Yeah. Just... too much training. You know.” Ifan forced their departure immediately.

They left the Keep bailey(*) and walked outside. The Keep had built a small town with many humble houses and a precarious market to keep Arx's lifestyle as much as possible. To protect it, Gareth had ordered to build walls around them, and a more sophisticated system defence against Voidwoken. Beyond those walls, several defence towers had been placed, as well as another fortified wall. With the ocean at the back of the Keep, the administration of resources to build a strong defence could be focused on the front. It was a great ground advantage. 

They went to the supply market where Gregorio bought the materials under the scrutiny of Ifan. He remained silent, observing the interaction between the vendor and Gregorio. Certainly, Gregorio was right. With his fingers and his sense of smell, he could manage to obtain the objects without problems, and he even complained about their quality. Surprised by that cunning, the vendor explained that better goods were impossible to get because the market roads were frequently attacked by Voidwoken . 

Once Gregorio got all the materials, they made their way back to the Keep, peacefully walking while enjoying the sun over them.

“Honestly, Tarquin is making bullshit excuses.” Ifan said, carrying the supplies in one arm while using the other to let Gregorio place his hand on and guide his way. “How will this help you to remember anything?”

“He says that I need to interact with more people and do more common things, maybe someone or something would spark a hint to a memory and trigger a massive unlock. Or at least, make me feel that something is familiar so I would know in what direction to look for.”

“Riiight, buying supplies is useful because... who wouldn't do that. Probably you have been enlightened enough already.” Ifan said ironically.

Gregorio softly hit Ifan's shoulder. “That's the point. To do the most mundane things so maybe I can find something that gives me a clue about... something else.” He ended the sentence with a hesitant tone. “I know it sounds too vague. But that's where I'm standing. In a vague world.”

“Still, buying supplies you can't watch or remember...”

“No. That's where you are wrong. I may not remember my past, but I know how those things smell, even though I can't remember smelling them, not even once. I mean, I can't remember how they smell, but at the moment I'm smelling them, I remember.”

Ifan frowned. “Do you?”

“I know it sounds impossible to believe. It’s strange. I know a lot of things. A lot of languages. A lot of books, but there is no memory showing me how I know about them. Tarquin assures me that everything I know is because of my past. But the holes in my memory are too broad. I only realise that I know something when I'm living it in the moment. Until then... I can't even guess how they feel or smell, or something.”

“So, you know a lot, but not until you are exposed to that.”

“Exactly. It seems to be the case.”

“Ha, what an irony for a scholar.”

“To be honest, I don't know if I was one. It doesn't feel appealing to be called such.”

“But chances are high. Scholar background is common among those who were chosen to become silent monks. I mean, you were a Sourcerer for sure, otherwise, there is no point in turning you into a silent monk or maybe a Gheist.”

Gregorio lowered his chin. Both kept walking in silence, while Ifan observed him. The man made him feel uneasy and calm at the same time. That white hair and those clouded eyes increased such effect. The silence between them made him wonder that maybe, that man was also a victim of a waxing moon (*). He had a strange luck, after all. Good to avoid the usual fate than silent monks are meant to, but not enough to have a full recovery. If that was not the doomed waxing moon, then he would not know what it was. 

Or maybe there was something else behind all this. Despite the fact that Jahan had cast aside that possibility with his inspection, Ifan still felt a certain degree of unease around Gregorio. He squinted while his chain of thoughts progressed.

Was it not too convenient to have those memories away and claim ignorance about everything while walking freely through the Keep? Could a monk like him be controlled by the God King? He had been feeling a dark presence lurking in the Keep’s shadows. He could not make a clear guess about it, who or what it was, but he was sure that something strange was going on. Being unable to spot from whom it was coming made Ifan nervous. 

He halted, and Gregorio did the same, waiting for instructions. Ifan took his arm away and looked at Gregorio, irritated that the man could be perceived as friendly as dangerous. _ Why? _ Was him the dark presence he had been feeling so far? Only the most deadly ones hid themselves in a lamb’s disguise. 

Ifan's pupils contracted, observing every single muscle on Gregorio's face. “What do you think about spies?” Ifan said. 

“I don’t know. Useful? When they are on our side, of course.”

“What if someone has been spying on you?” Ifan's voice was thin and infused danger. Like a predator, he fixed his eyes on him, watching the smallest gesture under his emaciated skin.

Gregorio’s face tensed, his lips twitched slightly, and a soft frown appeared on his face. “W-what?” He scoffed, “There is nothing to spy on me. What a boring target.”

“Are you sure?” Ifan needed to test that man, so he threw his last card, “I caught you,” he whispered.

His hand turned into a fist, breaking through the air like a lightning, and aimed towards Gregorio’s face. Unaware of what had just happened, Gregorio only felt a sudden breeze on his face, the scent of sweat in his nostrils, and the presence of something at the tip of his nose. He lifted his hand, touching Ifan’s trembling fist. He frowned.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Gregorio said.

With a sigh, surrendered, Ifan lowered his fist. Nothing. He had seen nothing that could mean an enemy under that pitiful frame. If this had been a trick, if this monk were a spy working for someone else, this whole situation would have given him enough context to react and dodge the punch. 

“What was that?” Gregorio insisted. 

No, it could not be. This man was a disaster of a spy. 

Only then, a cold shiver crossed Ifan’s back, and a shadow, only barely caught by the corner of his eye, disappeared in the market. _ That _ was the presence. That was the thing he always felt lurking around. And now it was clear that it did not come from Gregorio, but it seemed to be always nearby him. 

“Nevermind.” Ifan said, looking around, but whatever it was, it had managed already to dissolve its presence in the streets.

Gregorio made an annoyed gesture, oblivious to what had just happened, and grabbing Ifan's arm pulled him their way back. “Then, let’s just return.”

* * *

* * *

  
  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Waxing moon** [Divinity: Original Sin II]: during the game, Ifan explains that elves have a kind of moon horoscope based on its phases. He defines them this way:

  * _Full moon:_ The lively ones: generous and high-spirited.
  * _Waning moon: _The gentle ones: shy and intense.
  * _Dark moon_ : The mysterious ones: cool and analytical.
  * _Waxing moon:_ Those who will always have a hard life. It’s like a cursed moon.

**Yuthul Gor** [ [Rivellon, Canon](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Yuthul_Gor) ]: East region of the map of _Divinity: Dragon Commander._ It is mentioned in _Divinity II, Ego Draconis._ It is a desert area neighbouring Ferol from which is separated by a mountain range. It had been a natural homeland of various orc tribes until 1218 AD when they were forced to flee their land from rampaging forces of the Black Ring. Since such an event the desert had been one of the few lands dominated by the Black Ring and their allies. [ [See map ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570#workskin).]

These comments may be useless for a native English speaker, but just in case, I wanted to add it for all the non-English speaker readers, and also, to make sure I'm not misusing a word. 

These words are related to the anatomy of castles and will be used in the following chapters. 

**Battlement** : [ [ Image ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Battlement_\(PSF\).jpg)] It is a defensive architecture in which gaps or indentations, which are often rectangular, occur at intervals to allow for the launch of arrows or other projectiles from within the defences. These gaps are termed "crenels."

**Crenel** : [ [ Image ](https://cf.ydcdn.net/latest/images/main/A5battlement.jpg)] In military architecture, an embrasure or crenel is the opening in a crenellation or battlement between the two raised solid portions or merlons, sometimes called a crenel or crenelle. 

**Bailey** : [ [ Image ](https://cdn.britannica.com/s:700x450/85/91185-004-57CE25FD.jpg)] A bailey or ward in a fortification is a courtyard enclosed by a curtain wall. Baileys can be arranged in sequence along a hill (as in a spur castle), giving an upper bailey and lower bailey. They can also be nested one inside the other, as in a concentric castle, giving an outer bailey and inner bailey.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

“I told you, I was not sure about it, but now I am. They take Source and spread it into the ground. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve studied another of these, close to the Keep, in the forest.” Infirma said, displaying the drawings of what she thought it would be the inner mechanisms of the monolith. 

Among the many things she kept studying during her time outside Arx, the monolith was one of them. Her understanding on the matter was even improved when she found more of these artefacts in the forest, allowing her to see their functionality in real time, which had been impossible to do in Arx when they removed the small obelisk from the Barracks underground.

“But that doesn't make sense. Why would you send Source into the ground?” Tarquin said. 

Sitting on a stretcher, accepting Nyw's potion, Gregorio spoke before drinking it. “Maybe it's not about spreading it _ into _the ground.”

The old elf put his hand on Gregorio's nape and inclined the bottle to help him. Why was such a grip necessary? In the moment Gregorio put his lips on the edge of the flask, his mouth burnt. Without stopping, the elf forced him to drink it all at once. Now the grip made sense. Without mercy, as tears welled up against his own will, Gregorio's body reacted strongly, trying to stay away from that damn potion.

“Please, keep drinking. It's needed.” Nyw applied a force that Gregorio never imagined that such an old elf could have. 

Both scholars looked at him, observing the scene calmly. They were accustomed to the daily torture that the silent monk needed to be submitted in order to heal. 

When Gregorio gasped at the end of the painful drink, they finally asked, “What do you mean?”

Gregorio coughed, still feeling the burning in his throat. “Maybe there is a container deep down.”

“What for?” Tarquin smirked, amused with the stupid possibility. 

“I don't know. I just think that maybe...”

“How do you know it?” Infirma asked.

After a slight frown and a twitch of his mouth, Gregorio turned in the direction where he assumed the scholars were, “It's a guess. It would be an utterly waste of Source to simply spread it into the ground, purposelessly. And please, refrain from asking me why I know things. I never know.”

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and a woman pelted into the studio carrying a man who was half fainted, half groaning in pain. Tarquin sighed and rolled his eyes. Never a moment to rest; he missed his life when he was only a not so humble necromancer, whose subjects of study never were telling him where it hurt or felt sore. 

“What's this?” He said, observing the man who was grunting.

“I don't know, he was in the tavern. In the downtown, drinking, and started to scream. Please, help him.”

“Mhn. Well, leave him there.” Tarquin pointed out a free stretcher, moving his hand with disdain. He never could have a long conversation with Infirma without interruptions of this nature. 

He approached the suffering man, inspecting his face and lifting his eyelids. His iris was red, and inside the pupil there was something pulsating, as if it were a glint fighting against extinction. Tarquin frowned, surprised. The man's face turned red, and his body heat increased, surrounding itself with an invisible halo that distorted the images through it. This aura slightly burnt Tarquin's hands. 

“What in the Void...?” He said, stepping backwards.

Tarquin did not have time to complete his swearing. A colossal kinetic shock wave threw him against the wall. Startled, Infirma ran behind a desk, not without gathering some chemicals that she began to mix in haste. The man screamed in pain as his body increased its heat to finally turn into a fire creature, burning beds and blankets around.

“Tarquin? Infirma? Nyw?” Gregorio shouted out, nervous by the sounds he had heard, the smell of burning, and the lack of any answers from the scholars. 

His breathing became a mess as fear spread all over his body. He jumped down the stretcher and touched the wall, trying to make sense in which direction to run. He attempted to do so, expecting to find help outside the infirmary, but the creature blasted again and caught him with its shock wave. He was thrown away and hit his forehead on the wall, falling on the ground. Not completely knocked out, Gregorio cried out for help. 

Hugging the corner of the room, Nyw observed the situation pondering the danger that such fire represented to his old bark-skin, and with a wicked smile on his face, he took a dagger from the back of his belt, ready to run and attack the fiery creature. However, shouts and heavy steps coming from the corridor changed his mind. He sheathed the dagger and ran away into the next room, locking its door. He immediately escaped through the window, unnoticed.

Soon, Lysanthir, Ifan, and two Guardians entered the infirmary. Without second thoughts, Ifan leaped toward the creature, bashing him with his shield. The creature hit the wall and set on fire more beds in his fall. Behind the Guardians, Jahan walked in, sniffing in the air to pick up the scent of a demon. To extinguish the fire in the corner of the room, Lysanthir cast as much water as he could, irritating Ifan's nose. He began to sneeze continuously.

Jahan headed to where the creature had fallen; he grabbed its chin and raised it a bit, just enough to see into its eyes. Suddenly, wild blazes of Nemesis fire embraced him. Thankfully, he could cast just in time a protective water-based shield. It was at that moment that, without expecting the situation to be more controlled, Infirma threw to the creature a potion. The bottle broke when it hit it and spread the liquid all over its body. The creature screamed, as its movements froze. It was paralysed. Surprised, the Guardians looked at her.

“Look at that, it worked. Anaesthesia affects demons. Of course it was quite a high dose.” She explained giving a peek at the situation behind the border of the desk. 

Jahan placed his hand on the creature's forehead and grunting in effort, he could remove the demonic entity that had taken the body. The man's features returned to his human shape, revealing all the damage that fire and heat had done all over his skin. 

Shaking his head, rubbing his forehead with one hand while standing up, Tarquin looked around. 

“Why can't I have a single day of peaceful research? Why can't anyone stop hurting themselves or getting almost killed, or half possessed, or whatever.” He coughed as he felt his own illness getting worse with all this unnecessary overwork. He approached the man, observing his damage. “Meh, nothing that Nyw can't heal.”

That answer put at ease Jahan's heart. “This poor man has been struggling for a while. Some of his friends asked me for help. At that moment, I could not perceive any demon in his body, not like now.”

In a corner, sneezing, Ifan helped Gregorio to get up.

“What happened to him?” Tarquin asked. 

“They told me that he had been having dreams of his late wife, every night. The demons used to ask him for something; a kind of exchange. Many little exchanges. Then, they ended up possessing him.” Jahan finished his words, observing intensely to Ifan, who despite helping Gregorio to sit on a stretcher kept the intense eye contact. Then, he sneezed. The demonologist had sent him a clear warning.

“Well, everything is under control, at least for now.” Lysanthir said, arms akimbo. 

“Control, yes. Order, no! Look at the disaster of my studio. I should spend time researching, not cleaning.” Tarquin said. 

Lysanthir just rolled his eyes, while Ifan moved his lips, voicelessly, pronouncing the word _ scholars. _

  
  


The rest of the day passed by calmly. After the end of their routine patrols, Lysanthir invited Ifan to a night of booze. Unsure if the invitation — only offered to him — had romantic implications, Ifan accepted it under the excuse of bringing with them all the implicated ones in the possession event they had dealt with early. Despite being a bit disappointed with the sudden change of plans, Lysanthir did not mind it. A night of relax was always welcomed.

Ifan invited Tarquin, Infirma, and Gregorio to join their night of drinks. As it was expected, the scholars claimed that they had no time to waste on useless social interactions, insisting that Gregorio should do it anyway. After all, the recovering monk had to be exposed to familiar situations more and more often if he wanted to find the clues that would help him to heal his memory.

Early at night, in the downtown tavern, far away from the crowded section and hidden in a corner, Lysanthir, Ifan, and Gregorio began to relax with three tankards and a whole pitcher of ale on their table.

“...And that's how I met Dorotya(*), and ended up with a giant spider in front of me, when I was just... you know, looking for a little kiss after too much beer.” Lysanthir explained one of the many adventures of his life. 

“Ah, Dorotya. I knew her,” Ifan said, “Back then, when we were chasing Dallis. She was in Driftwood.” Ifan chuckled, remembering the embarrassing situation. 

“And did you kiss her? She was a spider-were!”

Ifan blushed a bit, looking at his tankard, “I've been in weirder trysts.”

“Oh, please, tell us, tell us, tell us!” Lysanthir repeated as a kid, hitting softly the table. Gregorio laughed, listening to them, entertained, while slowly drinking his ale. 

Ifan raised an eyebrow and looked at Lysanthir with a half-smile, preparing his body to narrate. He looked like he had told this story many times. “Well, there was that job I had to do in Cyseal, and I had to wait for a whole week for the target to appear, so... I went to the local Lizard brothel, and found this man. He was… an elf.” He turned serious. He was wondering about keeping the appearances or simply saying the truth about what he always used to do in brothels, “... He was a slave, of course.”

Lysanthir, smirk fading, held his tankard half way to his mouth. He turned serious too, knowing what kind of dark situation that meant for an elf. Gregorio stopped drinking as well, not because he could understand the implications, but because the whole atmosphere turned darker.

“Anyway.” Ifan continued, “Thing is, I asked him for his services, and the moment I went into the room, the guy simply jumped at me. With a flick of a wrist, he threw me to the bed. The hell of an eager man, he was. I was surprised that he had quite the strength for his slender body. I tried many times to tell him that I wanted to talk first, but he got me half naked when I tried to say a word. Then, he sneezed.” He chuckled, “And the man simply transformed into a troll.”

“What?” Lysanthir and Gregorio asked at unison. 

“He fell on me with all his body, half naked too, and kissed me. And I was still trying to tell him that I was more interested in breaking him free than having sex, but I could barely breathe. And at some point I screamed _ troll, _ and he froze looking down at his own body... and screamed too. It was so weird. Finally, he gave me a moment to speak. And it turned out he was a shapeshifter troll, not a slave, just focused on this line of work because it gave him more money than waiting for travellers in bridges. And it was less risky too. The Lizard owners of the place liked his eagerness and wanted to exploit the concept of a fake elven slave or a troll depending on the client's preferences, but... well, he was just a greedy troll.”

The three of them laughed softly. 

“But that was not a tryst!” Lysanthir claimed.

“Uh? Why not?”

“You never wanted to bed him.”

“Who says trysts are always for sex?”

“It's for lovers.”

“You went with Dorotya for sex?” 

Lysanthir looked aside for a moment, “You weren't?”

“She promised me some extra power. I was chasing after Dallis. Any little advantage was helpful.” Ifan looked down at his tankard.

Lysantyhir raised his eyebrows, “And Sandor knew about it?”

Ifan pressed his lips in a thin line. That name always gave him a sharp pain in the middle of his chest. A soft, sudden emptiness struck him, he could feel his heart stopping for a moment. “It was his idea. Each of us asked for her kiss.” He sighed long and deep, “Anyway, I've had thousands of trysts when I was with the Lone Wolves too, and none of them with romantic intentions, quite on the contrary.” He scoffed, “It's pretty different how common folks perceive some words from those who live in the shadows.”

Lysanthir frowned and then took a slow sip. “Well, enough of trysts. Let's talk about spicier things, without shame, otherwise it is not a true, _ human _ night of booze. You, Gregorio.” Lysanthir softly hit the monk’s shoulder, “What do you like in bed?”

“Why that topic?” Ifan said, as a slight blush returned to his cheeks. Lysanthir was probably taking revenge for Ifan's denial to a night alone with him. 

“Because there is alcohol! Never better method to free the tongue,” Lysanthir elbowed Gregorio, “C'mon, c'mon. Spit it out,” he said enthusiastically.

“I... I don't know. I can't remember.”

Lysanthir's enthusiasm lowered. “And... what's your taste in people? Is that clear for you?”

Gregorio frowned. “I don't know. I can't remember.” He hunched his shoulders, and pressed the tankard around his hands while his blind eyes kept open, lost somewhere in the table. “Better don't ask me, please. My memory...”

“Okay, fine. Don't worry.” Lysanthir patted Gregorio's back softly. So the elf directed his eyes towards Ifan, in front of him. He found him observing Gregorio full of pity. “So, it's on you, Ifan. Tell me about your tastes. How do you like it in bed,” the elf mischievously smiled, the glint in his eyes suggesting he was dying to know. 

“No, Lysanthir. That's too personal.”

Lysanthir huffed, tilting his head in boredom, “What a bummer. C'mon. We are relaxing, drinking.” No matter what Lysanthir could say, Ifan kept softly shaking his head. “Okay, okay. What about….what's your taste in lovers?”

“I don't have a taste.”

“Oh, c'mon, you are so boring, I can’t believe it. Are you telling me you just bed whatever you see walking around?”

“No. Of course not. If I were used to doing that, I'd have already bedded you, lad. That's the information you are looking for, right?” Ifan’s tone came out tinged with annoyance.

Lysanthir laughed, looking up, “I know. What a bad luck I have. So, mister I-have-no-taste, let me paraphrase it: what called your attention in Nueleth?” He lent on Gregorio for a fraction of a second and explained in a lower voice close to the monk’s ear, “That was his late wife.”

“Oh, I see.” Gregorio smiled, thanking Lysanthir's gesture. 

“Youth?” Ifan looked down at his tankard, blushing. “I was too young when I met her... I'd just left the forest and had enlisted the Divine Order wishing to change things for the better. But it was hard for me, I was not accustomed to humans... so, she was the only elf in my regiment, and... One thing followed another.” He chuckled, “I simply fell for her.”

“Really? You didn't do... you know, get around? Bedding everything that walks because you weren’t in the forest? I know humans are quite horny compared to us.”

“I’m not a monkey.” Ifan laughed broadly, remembering Sandor for a brief moment. “I know. Sounds crazy.” He shrugged, “But that's it. I've never trusted humans in the same way I usually do with elves.”

Lysanthir blinked twice, surprised by that bit of information, and then smiled confidently. For him, it was quite the opposite. “There must be something that got your attention, though. Not simply her elven nature. Right?”

“She was a strange elf, that’s true. She was like a dragon. It's always the best fitting description. All fire, and straightforwardness, and intensity, and...” He cleared his throat, blushing, “I didn't need to get around with anyone. I got her for that. Well, more accurately, she got me for that.” He chuckled, shy, touching the bridge of his nose with a finger.

Lysanthir raised an eyebrow, playful. He was dying to ask for details. However, he was going to wait for Ifan to drink a bit more before that. “She contained all those chaste teenage years of yours in the forest, uh?”

Ifan laughed, fully and throaty, and nodded, red cheeks and ears. He drank more. “She always dragged me into her ridiculous mess. And I liked that. There was a time where we both were training. I had reached the rank of a mere soldier. She was training me in weapons. Shield and sword. I don't know what the hell she did. I fell on the ground, heavy, fighting with our shields only, our swords were far away. She had been teasing me all day along, so I wanted to win, for once. I kicked her shield and turned her over, finally immobilising her by the compression of my shield against her. She was almost defeated, but she... she started touching me, you know.” Ifan tilted his head and the blush intensified. His smile became broader, and the crow’s feet in his eyes were easily noticed by that gesture. “Her long limbs could reach me no matter the shield. Long story short, we ended up making love there, stealthy, with clothes and all, in the training field barely covering our hips with my shield. Then, one of the High Paladins appeared.”

“Oh, nasty Nueleth!” Lysanthir exclaimed, clapping not too noisily. 

Ifan laughed, drinking more, “She... she ended up convincing him that we were still fighting, just too carried away, so we were using our... uhm, _ grip techniques. _”

Gregorio laughed. Lysanthir and Ifan looked at the monk in surprise but smiled immediately. The man needed some spirit that this spicy talk was indeed giving him.

“Nobody would have bought that.” Lysanthir said.

Ifan lowered his head, pressed his nose bridge, and smirked at Lysanthir with an intense glint in his eyes, “She claimed that she was a sacred paladin, she was not going to get involved with a mere human. Let alone to corrupt her divine body.” Ifan burst into a laugher that made some tears escape from the corner of his eyes. 

Lysanthir hit the table several times, guffawing, “I can't believe this. And with that, did the superior buy it?”

“Unbelievable, but he did. She used that excuse too many times. It used to work, until we got married. Since that moment on... no. I don't think so. But... that was Nueleth, always finding a way to drag me with her. She was the embodiment of Adventure in her own way. Never a dull moment with her.”

After a silence in which Ifan's smile slowly disappeared as the flux of memories continued to the end, he sighed and drank again. “Her intensity, that's something that always got me. Always overwhelmed me. At the same moment I saw her for the first time, I fell for her beyond salvation. When I knew her deeply...I fell twice. She was so transparent. She never _ lied _ to me.” Ifan fidgeted his medallion and then touched his shoulder where he had carried her mark for years. “I miss her deeply. Every day.”

Lysanthir smiled, knowing the sentiment quite well. His long life had allowed him to meet many people who had imprinted many versions of that exact sentiment on his heart. “Your taste in women seems to be quite different in men.” Lysanthir’s words made Ifan raise an eyebrow, so the elf continued, “I can't see any trait of Nueleth in Sandor.” He leant again closer to Gregorio, “His late husband.”

Gregorio nodded, silently. He knew about that name, even though he did not know much about the person related to it. Ifan used to repeat it a lot in their shared moments in the battlement, among sunbeams and drudanae scent. 

Tinged with sadness, Ifan took a long sip of ale and cleaned his beard with the back of his hand, “Ah. But I was not the same man that Nueleth met.” Ifan looked at the table, frowning slightly. “Nueleth gave me intensity, something that a young man appreciates a lot. Sandor, instead… forgiveness and the chance to start over. A wounded and repentant wolf needs that.”

“I see... Did you fall for him in the same way? With the same intensity? Because I never saw it.”

“No. You are right. I didn't. Truth be told, I didn't like him at first.” Ifan chuckled. 

Lysanthir blinked. “What?”

“To me, he looked like one more of those fancy smarty-pant scholars, a know-it-all — I mean, he truly was one,” He barked a laugh, “I've never liked those. But Sandor..." he sighed, surrendered. There was no way to know the exact moment he had been found himself trapped in those sad brown eyes, "It's hard to say when I fell for him. It was unnoticeable. He was like water, filling into you without knowing it, slowly eroding any resistance. When you discover your house is flooded... it's too late, the foundations are already compromised.” He took a moment of silence, spinning the tankard on the table, “Sandor was soft. A wounded and soft little bird. But not defenceless. He always hid some degree of poison, not ill-intended though. Just for self-defence. You saw him that time in the council meeting with the other Balurik assholes. He knew how to fight certain fights with a lot of poison and cunning. I... I found myself admiring that. His weak image was always hiding a lot of power and strength. And the contrast was... interesting.” Ifan smiled mischievously, "And dangerous. Sandor could be so damned dangerous."

Lysanthir nodded energetically. "His blasts.…" The elf took a sip, “He never _ dragged _ you like Nueleth, eh? Nothing of spicy things in public under the thrill of being discovered?”

Ifan smiled looking down. “No. He was not _ that _ kind of man. He was quite calm on that matter.” He remained silent for a moment, as the flux of memories came to him, and then he laughed too loudly, remembering that time of the _ tentacle _, and blushed fiercely. “But I tell you, he was not boring. He had the craziest ideas about how to use magic.”

As old and human-experienced as he was, Lysanthir could immediately understand that remark, “Ouhh, that's sexy.” The elf let a delightful hiss escape among his teeth, “Magic sex. My favourite thing in bed.” He winked at Ifan who rolled his eyes, “Look at Sandor. I can imagine him.”

“No, you can’t.” Ifan chuckled. Nobody would have imagined _ that _.

Lysanthir squinted resting his chin in his hand. “But since Nueleth died and you met Sandor... There was a lot of time for a human, right? Weren’t there more people to understand your taste? Just those two?”

Ifan's good cheer disappeared. He wet his lips and pressed them in a thin line. With a finger, he tapped the tankard's border. 

“Oh oh. There is more, but not pleasant,” Lysanthir said, reading Ifan too easily.

Ifan nodded, suddenly turning too serious. “Yeah. There was another one, a Lone Wolf. I don't like to talk about him.” He drank two sips and, forcing a smile on his face, he looked at Lysanthir. “And you? It's not fair if I'm the only one speaking. What's your taste in whatever you fancy?”

The elf made a half smile. “Strange ones. Any human who can show me something I didn't see or feel before. Which is getting more and more complicated over the years… you know… the older you get, the more you live, the less life surprises you.”

“Just humans, huh? Never an elf?”

Lysanthir looked down tracing the mug's edge with a fingertip, “I was raised too human for any elf. And I'm an elf for any human. I imagine you got a similar problem too.”

Ifan nodded. “Got interest in some elves here and there after Nueleth's death, but...” he shook his head, “Not mutual. So I didn't insist.”

Lifting his free hand, Lysanthir caressed some strands of Ifan's hair which were falling at the sides of his frame face. “It's sad we didn't meet that time. We should have had an interesting story by now.”

“Do you think so?” Ifan said.

They locked their eyes.

“Don't tell me you don't see that we work very well together?”

Ifan broke the visual contact but did not move apart from that bark-like palm. He truly missed the taste of caresses, “Lysanthir, please..I.. I-”

“Are you two… lovers?” Gregorio said, breaking the charm with his ghoul-like voice. 

For a moment, both had forgotten about Gregorio’s presence at the table. Lysanthir removed his hand and cleared his throat. “No. We don’t. Sadly. Don't worry. I'm just rambling about that damned thing you never can change: _The_ _past_." Lysanthir's eyes focused on Ifan's, "I'm just telling him that I would have loved him intensely in other circumstances.” He kept that visual contact for a moment and then he looked aside. “But I still do, my friend. A different kind of love, it is.” He patted Ifan's cheek and left his hand around his own tankard. 

Gregorio frowned. Something felt odd.

The elf drew back resting his shoulder blades against the chair, “You know, Ifan, there are some small things I love from you. They are not aimed towards me, but... I love them. You know, I saw you two, once, in the training room, in the barracks back in Arx. Sandor was exhausted, resting on the ground, and you were still teasing him to stand up and go back to sparring. But he truly was dead. I knew it because I saw him healing some refugees early in the morning during my patrolls. You were asking too much from him. He never was an _ athlete _," both chuckled for a moment, "And then, you started to do push-ups with him under you, showing off your resilience. And you were kissing him every time you reached down. And he giggled. None of you said a word. And that was...” he stopped, unable to find the word.

Gregorio smiled. “Cute”

“Right?” Lysanthir said, looking at Gregorio. “Ifan is a sweetheart when you get to know him.”

“I know.” Gregorio nodded. 

Ifan looked down, a bit ashamed. “Damn. That was just.... Me being silly.”

“You were.” Lysanthir looked at a lost point on the table, moving his fingers around the tankard. The memories were vividly coming to his mind as if he were looking at the situation right there, “But it didn't end there. You rested a bit by his side, and then you helped him to get up. You caressed his sweaty face, looking at him in a way I've never seen it before in you. You both laughed after talking a bit, I couldn't hear you. You lifted him in your arms, and Sandor seemed to protest, but then... he looked at you in that way, so unlike him. So relaxed. I was surprised. Inspiring that kind of emotion in a person like Sandor, who was too layered to never let his guard down... that's not something that anyone can do.” 

“Lysanthir, for the Fallen's sake, you were stalking me all that time?!” 

Lysanthir burst into laughter. “It was an accident. I just wanted to train when I found you both. And I didn't want to interrupt you. You have been working so hard pretending not to be partners. I didn't want to blow up your cover.” Everyone chuckled, “But I loved that scene. You, Ifan, have chosen so many wrong paths in your life that it does not suit your personality. You were not made for war, even less for mercenary life.”

Ifan frowned, his eyes teary. “I wish that could be true. But I've done terrible things. I looked aside when more terrible things were done. And I-”

“But all that was after your path was sealed. Would you have become a soldier if you had never left the forest?” 

Ifan looked down, silent. 

“What was your role among the elves? What the elders told you to do for the community?” Lysanthir said.

“I was in the group of providers.”

Lysanthir smiled, knowing he was right. Those elves had the role of hunting and looking for resources, for medicine herbs, for seeds to plant, for water when needed, for anything that allowed life in the forest to go on. “You were part of those who nurture.” 

Ifan sighed. “Just... I don't think...”

“You wanted to provide peace too, right? That's why you left.”

“I'm not a saint, Lysanthir. You tend to overlook too much when it comes to me. I may have wanted peace, but I also wanted to know what it meant to be around humans. Of course, soon after leaving I realised it was a waste of time. I ended up bonding too quickly with elves instead of humans. That's why... Nueleth... well. Life began to happen so fast after I left the forest.“

“Your path was twisted by an unfortunate stumble, a single bad choice, and its consequences became an abyss in front of you. Your moon didn't help you. But, I am certain, you weren't meant for war.” Lysanthir smiled when he saw Ifan rolling his eyes, “What? Don't you believe in the moon?, because you respect its weight.”

Ifan took his time to drink the tankard and pour more beer in it. “I don't know. Sometimes I want to believe that I have nothing to do with the mistakes I've made. But you can't simply blame the shadow of the moon on you. That would be childish, right?” Ifan looked at Lysanthir intensely, as he used to see a stranger when he was a Lone Wolf. "It would be good. To blame everything on something else. But it’s not real."

The elf looked down and sighed. “I suppose.”

Their table was immediately filled with a dark silence while the tavern murmur and the sound of tankards hitting tables interrupted that grave stillness.

“How was he?” Out of the blue, Gregorio's broken voice dragged them out from their thoughts. Lysanthir and Ifan looked at the monk, surprised by his intervention. Due to his companions' long-lasting silence, he added, “-Sandor, I mean.”

“It's true. You never met him,” Lysanthir said, observing Gregorio with sadness. He was sure that Sandor would have healed him much better than Tarquin.

“Stubborn,” Ifan chuckled, his sight fell on the table, “and soft.”

Lysanthir smiled at the pompous image of the wizard taking form in his mind, “What a combination, a soft hard-head.”

Ifan laughed lowly. His chest hurt. “He was a strange person.”

“Tell me about it. I saw him once kissing and hugging a tree.” Lysanthir said.

“What?” Ifan frowned at the elf, tilting his head a little bit. 

“In front of his house. You were inside._ Subtle, by the way. _” Lysanthir accentuated his sarcastic tone in the last words. “He told me he was analysing the tree's Source or something like that. I never bought it. I had a hunch that he wanted to taste an elf,” he grinned savouring the beer, always looking at Ifan with his mischievous piercing eyes, trying to extract any bit of information that his body language could slip. “I imagine you had been talking too much about elves to make him curious.”

Ifan blinked and then rubbed his face. He could not believe that. Well, in fact, they were talking about Sandor; he _ could _totally believe it. “That was Sandor for you,” he said. His little smile fainting, leaving a nostalgic gesture on his face. His voice came up full of affection “A weird, and sometimes, ridiculous wizard.”

“I imagine his cute strangeness was what caught your interest.” Gregorio said.

“I don't know. The more I think about it, the less I can understand it. Sandor and me... we were almost opposite in everything. He was a scholar, too focused on wasting his time in reading, while I prefer running in the open with the skies above me. He liked the safety of a warm house, I prefer the thrill of a hunt, the intensity of reaching my body’s limits. I enjoy the good company, he... his own loneliness.” He smiled to himself, lowering his chin, “But somehow we learnt how to enjoy what the other did. I learnt how to be comfortable in that warm house, and he started to enjoy my company or even training with others. Or maybe we both went too soft with age.” He looked down, scratching the tankard with a finger. “But, yes, I don't even know what made me fall for him. As I said before, I didn't like him at first, but then...I don't know when...” He shook his head and murmured, “It's impossible to know.”

Gregorio smiled. “The cutest thing I've heard lately. To fall for someone without noticing it.”

“I think we all fall the same way.” Ifan added.

“No. Not everyone. Some fall with a gesture, with a single detail that made the fact obvious to themselves. The more I heard about this Sandor, the more I understand why you loved him.” Gregorio said.

“Uh? And you just happen to know more than me about it? Are you showing off your scholarly cocky background now?” Ifan tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes and half smiling.

“Hey, don't call him that. In fact, I second him,” Lysanthir said.

“Nobody is asking you,” Ifan answered gently.

Gregorio chuckled. “I can't remember why I know this... but I _ know _ that the personality of people doesn't matter when it comes to love. What it does is their kindness, their interest in staying open and considerate to their partner, to be able to listen, to talk without ill-intentions. In short, to simply be honest with themselves and their partners. It seems to me that you both were on the same page.”

Ifan twisted his lips for a moment. Honesty had been a pending matter during the last weeks of his relationship with the wizard. Despite the time and death, it still hurt him. Sandor should have trusted in him, should have talked to him about _ Deathfog _. He shook his head, knowing there was no point in keeping those thoughts in his mind. They were not going to make Sandor come back. 

“How does it go for you?” Ifan said, looking at Gregorio, “How do you fall in love?”

“I wish... I could remember.”

“You keep saying you know things without knowing how. Why is this not the same?” Lysanthir said, gently touching Gregorio's shoulder with his.

“I know, and believe me, it bothers me too. But...I don't know, I can't remember. For some matters I simply know, for others... I know I should know, but I can't remember. When it comes to languages, to concepts in books, it does not trouble me. But things like this, related to me... to my personality... like how I fall for a person? They seem obscure. Maybe I've never fallen for anyone.”

“That would be _ strange. _ I'm old and I've met so many generations of humans; all of them have fallen. At least once.” Lysanthir drank. 

“Well, if you think I'm a Gheist without powers and sick and weak who can still think on his own... I certainly qualify as _ strange _.”

Ifan made a half smile, swearing he had almost felt that little poison splashing those words that tried to sound neutral. Was Gregorio just telling Lysanthir to go fuck off? Ifan chuckled to himself taking a sip from his tankard. He looked at the monk for a moment, observing those white disturbing eyes, his brittle hair, his prominent cheekbones on his emaciated face. The monk was such an awful image to see, still, those scraps of a sarcastic personality allowed Ifan to peek a fragment of the kind of person Gregorio had once been. And it felt good. 

“Your luck is _ strange _ too,” Lysanthir added, oblivious to the intentions of Gregorio's words.

Gregorio looked like he was going to say something else, but instead, he drank his tankard all at once. Then, he spoke with his broken voice, “Losing your memories must look like a blessing to some, especially for those that have a heavy consciousness to deal with," Gregorio moved his face towards Ifan, unintentionally, but the gesture was filled with meaning for the wayfarer, "But to me, it is like a punishment. Memories are related to experience. And by losing them, I've lost a bit of my experience too, even though some remnants are still present. But they are isolated fragments of something I knew, but completely unrelated to anything. What I know is just some concept popping up in my mind, no faces taught it to me, no voices explained it to me, no feelings were attached to it. It's... It's an alienating experience. Sometimes…. sometimes I only feel despair..."

"What if in your past there were things you wanted to forget?" Lysanthir said.

Gregorio shrugged, "Whatever it could be, it can't be worse than this state. Even if I've made big mistakes or had heartbreaking losses that I could not get over with, all that pain was embraced carving my character, whichever it was. Without them... I don't even have my personality. How would I know how I usually fall in love? I don’t even know who I am. How I react to the world."

Gregorio took a long pause and drank his recently filled tankard. Only then, Ifan and Lysanthir looked at the pitcher. It was almost empty, and none of them had poured more ale in their tankards. Both were in their second round, while Gregorio, probably, was over his seventh one. Now they could understand why, so out of the blue, the monk had turned so talkative. They shared a worrisome look.

Lysanthir spoke, "Well, that explains everything."

"Scholar endurance." Ifan said with a half smile. 

"Hey!" Lysanthir pretended to be offended.

"Let's keep it on the spicy," Gregorio said, hitting the tankard with enthusiasm against the table surface. "Let's talk about the first times. I've read once — somewhere…. who knows where —that the first times shape people, mark them."

A sudden flashback came to Ifan. His chest felt too tight, and his jaw tensed; his mood was completely ruined.

“I like that topic. It's always full of fun,” Lysanthir said, “Don't you think... what's wrong, Ifan?” Lysanthir blinked at the man who stood up from the table and looked around, his face serious.

“I had enough drinks for today. We can't afford to have a hangover tomorrow.”

“Ah, what a spoilsport you are.” Lysanthir made a pout.

Ifan took the pitcher and placed it on the other extreme of the table, far away from Gregorio. “And I think it's enough drink for you too, lad.”

Lysanthir squinted at Ifan, surprised by such sudden change of mood, while he finished the last of his drink. Before midnight, they were walking the streets back to the Keep. 

* * *

The Council meeting had just finished. The previous day Slane and Sebille had returned and brought the worst news they could: Vacca(*), the apparent Dragon God, great shifter between dragon and elf shape, had disappeared. Although they could not collect any information completely based on proof, it was impossible to reach him. Most rumours claimed that he had been consumed a millennium ago by Black Ring's necromancers, who used his unique Source to weaken the back-then thick Veil, allowing the first contact with the Voidwoken. Others stated that the Dragon God was anything but a god, only a powerful wizard of the elven people that had mastered the arts of the Dragon Knight(*), and tired of the dangers of the world, had secluded himself deep into the earth. Whether dead or alive, he was unreachable. 

Malady and Gareth were worried about this news. The list of allies was turning thinner over time. 

Of course, the news was not innocuous for Ifan. To know they had another asset less only worsened his already precarious state. Sitting at the table, his hands kept shivering uncontrollably while receiving the news, and a deep craving for something that could bring some peace of mind tightened his chest. He needed a hint. Another one, despite having taken his last one early in the morning, before training. His body was asking desperately to feel that sweet taste in his veins. 

Not delaying the desire any longer, he walked up the stairs as soon as the meeting finished, and without paying attention to the battlement surrounding, he went straight to his secret corner and took the pipe hidden behind the loosen tile. He took some puffs immediately and only then, when his hands calmed down and his mind started to think clearer, he looked around. 

Gregorio was there, as usual, sitting on the bench in the middle of the battlement, with his chin lifted to the skies, pretending to watch. The only difference with their usual routine was his blindfold, stained in blood. 

Ifan frowned. “Hey, what happened?” 

Gregorio's voice started more broken than it used to be. He was hurt, enduring too much pain despite his stoicism. He coughed a bit and grabbed his own chest, wincing. He let a hiss out and after a moment, he spoke again, “Tarquin tried to fix my eyes. It didn't work.”

Ifan offered him some puffs -- they surely would soothe the pain -- but Gregorio pushed his hand away, gentle, even though the sweet smell was tempting. 

“This helps to forget what's hurting,” Ifan added.

Gregorio's lips trembled, and the muscles of his face twitched in tension. Ire? Was it ire what Ifan was observing in him? 

Gregorio broke the silence speaking as quickly as his hoarse voice allowed him, “I don’t want to forget anything more. I’m sick of forgetting.” 

Unsure, Ifan took the pipe again and drew another puff. “Fine. Have it your way.”

But Gregorio ignored his words, and far from dropping the topic, he sank into the angry sentiment, “Everything feels familiar, yet, it’s impossible for me to find any memory about it. Who the hell cares what's written in a stupid book... when daily things are so strange to me... I know I should know how a rose scent is, yet...I can't. I can't.” Gregorio's voice quivered, a knot in his throat suggested he was about to cry, if he was not doing it already; it was hard to know for sure with that bandage over his eyes. “Even tasting... I know about food whose taste I can't remember.” He lowered his face, digging his fingers on his own arms. “Listening to you two, the other night, made me realise I can't remember how a caress feels, a hug, a kiss, a lover... even though I know I should. I have to. You can't imagine how alienated this is.”

Ifan crouched in front of him observing his face. By instinct, he tried to look at Gregorio's eyes, now covered with bleeding bandages, and ashamed, he lowered his head to see that emaciated hand, bony fingers, digging deeply into those thin forearms. Skin and bones. Ifan took another puff and threw the smoke to the side. 

“Why can I know what a _drivilix_ is and I can't remember the taste of bread? Why did the most common things have to be strange to me?” He whispered. 

Hesitant, Ifan extended his hand to reach out Gregorio's knee but stopped midway. Instead, he stood up and sat by his side, still smoking. “Maybe all that memory wipe was needed for you to become a Gheist. After all, they look to me like puppets, you don't want a thinking person as a weapon. Even less a person with emotions and a past. I feel you, lad. It's cruel what they did to you, what they tried to turn you into. Although it must not seem too much for you, you survived, lad. That makes you stronger.”

With a calmer tone, Gregorio released the tension of his fingers on his forearms, “Who cares about being strong if you become a rag doll?" Resigned, he sighed and continued, "Tarquin keeps repeating to me that I have to experience mundane life, more often. That's why I asked him to help me with my sight. Maybe.. watching life, seeing it, would help me to remember better. I...I'm so tired of swimming in this endless darkness, in this empty mind where things seem to be something, _ mean _ something, yet... they don't. I can't deal anymore with this confusion in a world full of things I should know, but I don't.”

Ifan sighed, put the pipe aside on the bench, and hugged Gregorio, quite lightly, afraid of hurting him. Surprised by the unexpected touch, Gregorio needed some seconds to respond to the gesture, lifting his hand to the middle of Ifan's back. It was a shocking and delightful experience. The sweet scent of drudanae reached his nostrils, same as some tones of herbs that were proper of Ifan. It followed his warmth. Somehow, Gregorio felt it was familiar. Maybe it was how forests smelt. Maybe it was linked to his past.

“These times are really cruel. We are all living our personal hell.” Ifan said, tightening the embrace, lips compressed in a thin line.

After a moment, they drew back. 

“Thank you, I think I needed that.” Gregorio whispered, still a bit overwhelmed by the sensations it had triggered which were a mixture of familiarity with needs and desires.

Ifan smiled, remembering the Cloisterwood(*) in the blink of an eye. How much ire he had at that moment after facing Hannag(*), how meaningful Sandor's embrace had been to soothe it. “Anytime, buddy. Anytime.” 

Ifan gently patted Gregorio's shoulders, his lips twitching at the disturbing touch of bones under the clothes. It made him remember Fane. He took the last puff and hid the pipe into the loosened tile, giving a last look at that sad, hurt figure that had been a human once. Then he started walking down the stairs. 

“Wait...” Gregorio's words stopped Ifan, who turned over his heels and hummed in an unspoken question. “May I ask you a favour?” The silence conceded the petition. “I … I... Can I touch your face?”

Ifan raised his eyebrows, “Touch?”

“I can't see. But.. I would like to... know you. What you look like. There are so many things I don't know about, and that includes you... I thought... well. After all the stories shared in the tavern... maybe I could ask you... this.”

Ifan chuckled, confused with that explanation, but he did not mind it. He knelt on one leg in front of the silent monk, and took his hands to guide them to his face. Gregorio swallowed. The subtle trembling in his hands revealed that such a petition had been flitting around his head for quite a long time. 

Gently, Gregorio's bony fingers ran along Ifan's face, touching his hair and beard, pressing slowly on his eyelids, tracing part of his wrinkles, and caressing his lips. He remained stroking several times his left cheek scar and the crossed one on his forehead. Then, Gregorio lowered his hands and a little smile appeared on his face. “Thank you”

“Anytime, lad. Did you find something interesting?”

“I did.”

“Can I ask you what it is?”

“I thought you'd have... scars. Like the ones I touched. And a beard. I wish I could see you, because I already have your image in my mind. It would be nice to... know if it is accurate. You seem to be handsome.”

Ifan snorted. “Well, keep on the hard work, and some of these days, you will see my terrible face.” He patted Gregorio's shoulder softly.

Gregorio's smile broadened, warmed by that thought. “Thank you Ifan, and sorry for my... reaction a moment ago.”

“It's all good.”

* * *

“I need to find her.” Malady said, tapping her feet, crossed arms. Her eyes had fallen on the white cat whose long tail swayed in the air. “You know the Weaver of Time personally.”

Sitting at the edge of the council table, the cat stretched his body, taking all his time until returning to a neutral position. “I did, indeed. But it has been a long time. When Source was corrupted, and the Guardians of the Void abandoned their duties.” He licked his pawn, “Besides, do you remember what happened with Zixzax? We still have a spy around and I can't risk her assassination. Someone has to protect the Weave of Time. You have been more than careless.”

Malady blinked in surprise. “Are you blaming me for their deaths?”

“I'm just saying that, so far, our plan to face this danger has backfired several times and has only killed important powerful assets. It has been a failure.”

Malady hit the table with her fist and demonic red fumes emanated from her body for a fraction of a second. “I've sacrificed many things to stop now.”

The cat squinted at her. Arhu had noticed the increase of demonic power in her for a long while, as well as the weakening of her control. What she had been sacrificing was nothing more, nothing less than her own self-restraint. Or maybe what used to help her to maintain it. It was not a secret for anyone that Malady had been looking for favours among the most powerful demons of Nemesis whose deals always asked too much from a single person.

“Why do you care so much, anyway? You can jump into dimensions, leave this one to its own fate... why would you give so much to this realm?” Arhu said.

Malady snarled, squinted eyes full of frustration, while her magic raised from her body in a turbulent spiral of miasma, sparking little lighting of Source around her. She sighed, lopping off the effect. “I have my reasons. I've seen what Chaos brings.”

“Who showed you?”

Malady looked aside, calming her ire. “She. The Weaver of Time. In my childhood dreams. I would do everything to stop this. You have no idea how much I've already given up. We can't lose this world.”

Arhu's tail suddenly stopped its undulating movement, and his eyes fixed on hers, in a vain attempt to find a lie. However, despite the layers of mystery, she seemed honest.

“I trust her.” Gareth walked into the council room followed by Ifan. “If that counts for something.” He closed the door behind them. “She has been making tough calls for everyone. Although I don't always approve of her methods.” 

Malady wickedly smiled when she saw Gareth's squinted eyes being darted towards her. 

Arhu walked silently along the table, looking at the carved map under his paws, analysing the situation. The next movement of the Lizard expansion had to be headed towards the South; there were no more lands at the East to conquer. The Voidwoken had been swarming the main Northern cities of Rivellon. Their random nature of appearing and disappearing in any point of the map had turned them into an always-present possibility in any plan. The Veil, more fragile and thinner every day, was starting to display deep cracks in the sky, causing the days to become shorter and shorter and the presence of Voidwoken more frequent. The last one of their list of problems was the disturbing entity of the Child of Pandemonium which was yet to come. 

“How can we do this without putting the Weaver of Time in danger? We can't risk her. Without her... the world... would simply end, in all planes, in all times.” Arhu said. 

“You can travel through planes like Malady, right?” Gareth said towards Arhu, “Go with her. Don't say a word about your plans, your departure, your return…. Just go. Let no one, not even us, know about it. I second Malady, we need to have as many assets as we can. And the Weaver of Time seems unique.”

Ifan sighed, observing the map. “We’ll make Rivellon resist as much as we can during your searching.”

Arhu and Malady nodded, then Garreth spoke again, “Then, it's settled. Ifan, bring everyone here. We need to plan heavy defense if our most powerful magical assets are not going to be present for a while.”

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Cloisterwood ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Cloisterwood) ]: It is a region of Reaper’s Coast, where Ifan faced Hannag. [ [ See map ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570#workskin).]

**Dorotya ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3054) ]: were-spider woman that you find in the Undertavern of Driftwood who gives you the quest [ A Web of Desire ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/A+Web+of+Desire). Through a kiss she can give you extra points in your stats. 

**Dragon Knight** [ [ Divinity lore in genera ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Dragon_Knight)l]: Champions of real Dragons that have been gifted with special powers and abilities. The most well known of these gifts are the power to transform at will into a Dragon themselves. Slane is a Dragon Knight canonically. 

**Hannag** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II] ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-reapers-coast/#3292) : Lizard Source trainer that was responsible for crafting the _ Deathfog _device that exploded in the elven forest. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

Ifan's shield fell and the recruit's sword pierced his shoulder. He screamed, as his knees faltered, and a profuse bleeding soaked his arm quickly. 

“Fuck,” Ifan said, panting. 

The weapon fell on the ground, and the soldier recoiled, shocked, while the rest observed the scene in a grave silence. Their commander would have never failed _ that _way. 

Lysanthir moved his hands in the air, smiling, dismissing the event, and helped Ifan to stand up again. “Enough for today. We are all too tired. Better let's rest properly, we can't fight exhausted like this.” He said while inspecting his friend's shoulder. 

The young Guardian apologised several times and bowed before Ifan once more, but Ifan simply smiled and dismissed him. 

“Better go rest, lad. You see what tiredness can do on a veteran soldier.” He winked at him, releasing the pressure in the soldier's chest. 

Lysanthir lowered his sight to Ifan's hand; it was trembling significantly. Although Ifan was squeezing the elbow to control the compulsive movement, it had no effect at all. “Exhaustion, uh?” Lysanthir whispered when the rest of the soldiers were far away. 

“Let's not start over...” Ifan averted his eyes, pushing Lysanthir gently. 

“Ifan, you can't continue like this.”

“I... I have it under control. I just... It's... I'm tired. Nothing more.”

Lysanthir looked at those evasive green eyes, scolding him silently, but Ifan ignored his gesture and walked away, pressing the wound with his other trembling hand. Gathering the patience that hundreds of years living among stubborn humans have given to him, Lysanthir ran after him and convinced him to go to see Tarquin. His shoulder needed magical treatment. Lysanthir had become unable to heal anymore due to the flickering Source phenomena.

On their way to the infirmary, they accidentally met Sebille who had just arrived from the North. After her failed search for Vacca(*) with Slane, she had been sent weeks ago by Malady to spy on the Lizards — nobody was better suited for the task considering her background. 

Ifan smiled at her who hugged him gently despite the wound. With an inquisitive look, Sebille lifted her chin, making their height difference even more pronounced. 

“Getting rusty?” She said looking at his shoulder.

“Kind of.”

But she was always sharp enough for cheap excuses. She observed Ifan's trembling hands and then Lysanthir's face, who bothered, shook his head softly while raising an eyebrow and rolling his eyes.

“I can't find Malady. Where is she?” Sebille said, ignoring the unspoken obvious problem of her friend.

“She and Arhu left to do some stuff in other dimensions.” Ifan answered.

“Ah, damn.” She sighed. Sadly, she could not make it in time. 

“We don't need her approval to take every single decision we want to. She is not our mother.” Ifan added.

Sebille chuckled, looking at Lysanthir. “Rusty and grumpy.”

The other elf shrugged with a fond smile on his lips, “Humans.” 

The three of them walked calmly, crossing the long distance of the inner bailey in direction to the studio where Tarquin, or maybe Infirma, could treat Ifan's wounds in a more traditional fashion. Meanwhile, Sebille shared with them the small bits of information she had gathered in the North. Details had to await until a new council meeting could be called.

That the Lizards had been advancing at a fast pace some weeks to keep quiet and immobile for long periods of time later was not surprising in the slightest. That had been their strategy so far. Although they could not explain the reason behind that strange behaviour, nothing of that pattern had changed in the last weeks. Except for the fact that the Lizards had founded new allies in their cause. 

“Elves.” Sebille said. Lysanthir and Ifan stopped their steps and with wide open eyes looked at her. 

“Saheila is on our side, I swear.” Lysanthir said. 

Sebille shook her head, “I know. It's the other elven faction. Tovah's.”

Lysanthir sighed loudly, looking at the sky. “Is this, by chance, the war of races that Saheila has been foreseeing a long time ago?”

Sebille chuckled. She could hardly imagine any sense in Saheila's words. “Whatever it is, it means that Tovah's elves are not trustworthy.”

“Well, that's good information to have. Good work, Sebille.” Ifan said, hissing in pain at a wrong movement he did with his wounded arm, “That may be the lead to our current spy problem.”

Sebille squinted at him, “Are you suggesting that an elf is a spy?”

“It's a possibility. Can we identify Saheila's people from Tovah's?” he asked. 

Sebille shrugged. “But it's easy to check. Grab any elf and lick them.”

“I can't believe it.” Lysanthir said, “How would an elf go against Saheila's wisdom? Against the freedom that she has brought us all?” 

Although Lysanthir had not been raised among elves, his connection with the Mother Tree was always there, in the form of constant whispers in the back of his mind. Centuries later, when he reached adulthood, he returned to his people for a short period of time during which the connection was strengthened. Only when Saheila decided to destroy the Mother Tree, he could finally sense the silence and the true form of freedom.

“Sometimes people don't want to be free of their own chains but of the responsibilities that their own freedom brings.” Sebille said gravely, resuming their walk. 

When they were close to the infirmary, a heartbreaking scream followed by irregular gaggles put everyone on alert. Unsheathing her daggers, Sebille ran in the direction of the screams, followed by Lysanthir whose dual enchanted axes were already activated on his hands. With more difficulty, Ifan walked behind them, taking the big sabre from the side of his belt. 

Bursting into Tarquin's studio, they found the scholar knelt, trying to reach out Gregorio, whose desperate screams matched the violent convulsions that had forced him to fall on the ground and writhe as his bony fingers dug into his chest. At a corner of the studio, Infirma was hastily mixing potions. As soon as the liquid glowed, she ran to the suffering patient, and with Tarquin's help, they held the monk against the ground, and forced him to drink the potion. He choked as blood started to pour from his eyes and chest, and his screams became drowned in the liquid. 

The clinic was a mess. Several stretchers were turned upside down spread on the ground, stains of blood could be found everywhere; some potion flasks and broken crystals were all over the floor, their steamy liquids evaporating and adding to the atmosphere an acid, sulphuric scent. 

After a minute, the screaming man passed out, and Infirma and Tarquin could finally breathe. They looked at their bloody hands trembling, exhausted.

Despite his wound, Ifan walked to them, worried for that man on the ground. He seemed to be more dead than alive. Ifan crouched, wincing at the disturbing amount of blood coming from the monk's closed eyes. He pressed Gregorio's neck and sighed in relief. Incredibly, the man was still alive, what a tough lad he was despite his fragile appearance. 

Then, he frowned at Tarquin, “What the fuck have you done?”

Wiping out the blood on his own face with a handkerchief, Tarquin sighed. “The procedure was a little bit rougher than what Sandor imagined it would be.”

Taken aback by that name, Ifan was immobile for a moment. For a fraction of a second he almost believed Sandor was there, in that studio, somewhere, giving his opinion on a patient's treatment. For a moment, he almost felt him alive. The pain in his shoulder brought him back into the dark reality. 

Ifan observed the fainted man on the ground. It was true. Everyone knew that Tarquin had been leading for a while the continuation of all the inconclusive research related to Source and silent monks left by Sandor. Ifan himself had given to him all Das Vapour's reports and Sandor's personal books, hoping his lover’s efforts would not turn out to be a waste. 

Ignoring his pain, even enjoying it a bit as a needed punishment for past mistakes, Ifan lifted the passed out man and put him on one of the few stretchers that were not upside down. 

He looked at Tarquin. “Why is he not putting on weight?” Lifting him had caused him less pain than he wanted to. 

“He can't eat much. He is trapped between two magical procedures, unlike the other monks I've been working with.” He said, taking a seat to rest after the stressful moment. Infirma brought him a glass of water. 

“Two?” Lysanthir crossed his arms after putting his axes on his belt. 

“These new Gheists are created after a devastating process based on Source purge, just to be refilled with it later. They can't hear, or speak, or eat, or see. Their senses are blocked, so they can only react to their master's order through a magical link inside their minds. The old silent monks used the worms as a receptor. Now with these new versions, that effect is entirely magical, more sophisticated, and effective. Unlike the ones with a worm, if a silent monk reaches this point of the procedure —being purged and refilled later with more Source than he had before— turns out to be a lost cause. The process has been completed, and they can't be recovered.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sebille asked. 

“I am now. After all this time of researching.”

“Did... did he... did he reach that point?” Ifan said while looking at Gregorio being treated by Infirma. “But he always could hear…” 

“Thanks to the cruel luck of this Universe, he didn't reach that point without return— it would have been easier for him if he did, death seems to be more merciful than recovery. I daresay that he has been under forty per cent of the process. He lost his sight and his voice. He still could hear on his own when we found him. However, that's not the only magical procedure he is under.” Tarquin looked down, smirking, “I can't believe I didn't realise it earlier.” 

“What's the other?” Lysanthir insisted. 

A glint in Tarquin's eyes disturbed Ifan. “A self-imposed block.” 

Everyone's surprised faces kept Tarquin silent, enjoying the suspense, adding that bit of drama he liked to pour in his explanations. 

“You see,” Tarquin continued “I think this man destroyed his magic before the process of becoming a silent monk. According to his fellow prisoner, his behaviour changed from a day to another before starting the purge. He became an empty shell.” He drank a bit of water sustaining another long pause. “There is a rare ancient spell that nobody knows beyond old wizards like Zandalor or Arhu, I would say. It makes a magician forget everything about their knowledge and experiences — with the exception of languages and some sophisticated concepts that they may need — so their mind becomes a blank paper. The process can't be completed without choosing a few mental keys, a short list of things that must happen in a certain order to allow the recovery of their memories and magic. It's like a chest in which you put all your own self and you lock it up under several keys. You need to be exposed to those keys, in the right order, to open the chest again and 'wake up'.”

“What kind of keys are those?” Ifan asked.

“Completely personal for you to pick. You craft them by assuming that you may have high chances to be exposed to them in that order when you are completely blank of memories. As you can imagine, it's a delicate set of choices, you need to analyse all your chances. He may have chosen a place, or an object, or even a kind of experience. Usually three keys are needed, with an extra one, working as an emergency-key, which forces the awakening so violently that there is a high risk of losing memories forever. That key should be more unlikely to find than the other three, for safety reasons.”

“That requires a lot of planning,” Sebille said.

“Why would a magician do that?” Lysanthir asked, horrified by the nature of the spell. 

“Is it so hard to see? We are talking about a mage that was certain he would end up as a Gheist, as the new ones. If you know your power will turn you into a powerful monster, under the control of someone else, would you not block yourself?”

Lysanthir blinked, nodding after a moment of reflection. He was old, and had been a scholar too; however, he had never heard of such a spell in his life. “Does that spell truly exist?”

“As I said, only ancient wizards know about it. Or maybe scholars with good access to dark ancient magic.” He smirked, a glint of mystery shone in his black eyes. “Before finally accepting this hypothesis, I spoke to Gregorio in an old language; the language in which that spell is written. And he could understand it without problem.” He looked at the mentioned man, now exhausted on a stretcher, “He knows rare dark magic, or at least, he knew it before becoming this. May he be a necromancer fellow? I wonder. There is so much irony in his fate if that's the case.”

“I imagine it makes you reconsider your life choices,” Ifan added with a degree of bitterness. 

Tarquin raised an eyebrow and twisted his smile. “No, it doesn't.”

Ifan rolled his eyes. “Well, if this spell is so secret, how do you know so much of it, anyways?” 

“Oh, please, my handsome friend. You are talking with the most skillful man in all Rivellon. Born without Source, I brought Braccus Rex into this world and also crafted the most powerful, and sadly, ephemeral weapon to kill him again, _ Anathema _. I know a lot of disturbing things that you cannot even fathom their existence.”

“Okay, okay, smarty-pant, you know a lot. I get it.” Ifan muttered, “If this is like a chest with a lock, how do we get its keys? Or we can just lockpick it up.”

Tarquin shook his head. “There are no shortcuts. The keys must be found.” He tilted his head, thinking, “Self-imposed spells of ancient tradition can only be undone by the one who cast them.”

“What?” Everyone asked at the same time. 

Lysanthir scoffed. “Great. You wipe out your entire life, knowing that only small details of _ that _ life will give your memories back. So... is this a problem without a solution?”

“Oh, no. No, no. There is a solution. In fact, it's the only one. When you cast this spell on yourself, you pick the keys verbally while visualizing them in your mind. An object, a person, a place. Usually, people who use this spell — assuming they are smart enough — know for sure that they are going to be able to meet those requirements. What I mean is… they can't be hard to find.”

“What? You end up relying on luck for recovering your own life?” Ifan asked, horrified. 

“I hate repeating myself. _ No _. You choose things that you are sure you will be exposed to, eventually. Nobody would ever choose a person, for example. You are never sure if that person may die first.”

“What if you do?” Ifan insisted. 

“Well. You get stuck in the spell. And I would say that you deserve it, if you are such a fool to choose a person as a key.”

“What a mess.” Ifan said.

“Well, you still have the emergency-key, as I said before. But I would not recommend it. It tends to produce holes in the memory. You recover part of yourself, but not completely.”

Lysanthir sighed, frowning. “How do you know so much about the details of this spell?”

“Because I used it regularly in the past.” 

Everyone blinked in silence at Tarquin, who took, again, a long sip of water enjoying the dramatic effect. 

Then, he looked at Ifan and Sebille, “Do you remember when we finished our common mission years ago? I wanted new challenges, so I visited the Gustavchen dimension (*), a place where creatures feed on your mind. I would never put at risk this world — by my own will, that's it — or my knowledge, so I used this spell before travelling. Look at me now. Perfect as always.”

“You got your previous memory plus the ones earned in that dimension?” Sebille asked. 

“Exactly so. Both memories mix after a time of adjustment. Confusing time, I must say, but worthy.”

Ifan shook his head. To risk one's complete self just to find a challenge; he would never understand the self-destructive nature of scholars. 

“Let's stop so much chit-chat and let me treat you, I see you are bleeding.” Tarquin said, standing up and reaching Ifan. The commander allowed him to heal the wound, while observing Gregorio on the stretcher and reflecting about the hell that that man had lived already.

“Well, I'm going first to the Council meeting and I’ll tell Gareth to wait for a moment, until you are done with that wound.” Lysanthir said and left the studio. 

In a corner, Ifan was sitting on a stretcher, waiting for the last potion to do its effect and heal the deep wound. Meanwhile, the scholars focused on Gregorio's vital signs. Sebille, sitting by his side, observed the scene with a grave gesture, the same as Ifan. 

She turned towards him and spoke once their eyes met. “Before going to the council... how are you holding?” Sebille's sight fell immediately on Ifan's trembling hands resting on his lap. She touched them, noticing that nothing was reducing their shivering. Worry was clear in her eyes.

Ifan shrugged, “I... I don't know. I'm.. not myself, truth be told.”

“Ifan, you are. But just like everyone else, you are overwhelmed by the disaster we are living. And you are not relying on anyone. Or releasing stress with anyone.” He raised an eyebrow as she lifted her hand to place it on his healthy shoulder. “I've seen how Lysanthir looks at you... why don't you give it a try?”

Ifan rolled his eyes, “l know. The man is not subtle, precisely. But I can't. Do you think I'm so desperate to look for anything in anyone? after... after _him?__”_ His voice lowered in the last part.

Sebille patted his cheek. “There is nothing wrong in looking for some affection during these dark times. It gives us some sanity.” She smiled looking down, as a brief thought of Lohse crossed her mind, “Sandor's death affected you a lot, and I understand it. I'm not asking you to forget him, just... Just find a way to go on. You survived many things before.”

He touched his necklaces, Nueleth's and Sandor's in particular. “I was younger. Didn't have the weight of decades living in the shadows. You know it's a particular type of weight. It's not so easy to go on. Besides, I've never been good at overcoming loss. After my wife, I didn't go on. In the best case, I learnt how to live _ with _ her loss. But it's always there. I can't forget it, I don't want to. With Sandor, it's not only too fresh still, it's also more painful. We... we were in bad terms when that... that... happened. I want to return time back. To stop Sandor from going to that damned forest. If I would have-”

She pressed her finger on Ifan's mouth, “Stop it right there. Didn't you learn anything from all your life? There is no use in feeding your guilt. We are here, living this. Do not wish for things you can't change.” She whispered, observing Ifan's teary eyes. 

Then she hugged him for a long moment.

* * *

A long wooden base on which several figures of Lizards were fixed was the single piece that represented the Lizard troops on the Council map table. Sebille moved it on Arx and looked at everyone. “The Lizards are coming.”

“But they will need to face the swarm of Voidwoken that had taken Arx,” Gareth said, pointing out to the Voidwoken figure over the city.

“They pass through Voidwoken easily.” Sebille said. “There are two disturbing things in these Lizard troops:” She took a long breath, “The name of its commander, and the dragons.”

Slane, present in the council for explicit order of Sebille, frowned. “That cannot be possible. I am the last one of my kind, and so far, I've been teaching _ your _ soldiers the secret arts of the dragon shifting. Only some elves can do it properly. And they are loyal to us.”

“Great. So we have dragons flying the skies, plus Voidwoken on the ground _ and _the skies.” Ifan rubbed his forehead. “What about their commander?”

Sebille looked down, taking a figure of a red Lizard. “He is called the Red King.”

Ifan's lips opened a bit as his eyebrows shot up. 

Shaking his head, Gareth scoffed. “That's impossible.”

“I know.” Sebille said, remembering how the Red Prince, along with Beast had died in their journey out of the cursed Fort Joy isle, several years ago, and they did it again in the Well of Ascension (*). “My guess is that someone is impersonating him, abusing his myth. As an extra detail, he is accompanied by the Red Queen, Sadha.”

“Crap.” Ifan crossed his arms wincing a little at the sharp pain on his recently treated shoulder. The pressure on his arms was always a good way to reduce the trembling. “They are using their own myths, the crappy prophecies to inspire soldiers. That's always bad for the enemy. Nothing worse to fight than fanatic soldiers that believe in their commander as some prophetic wannabe god.”

Lysanthir smiled imperceptibly, thinking in Lucian as he was looking at Ifan's profile out of his corner eye. 

“They say the dragons are their promising progeny, a proof that they are meant to rule all over Rivellon.” Sebille said.

“It's not possible, Sandor destroyed Sadha’s eggs.” Ifan said, looking at Slane, “These have to be people shifted into dragons. Not dragons for real.” 

“Why does this have to happen now? We should be focusing on Voidwoken, not Lizard stupid imperialism.” Gareth kept shaking his head, observing the map. More and more figures of Voidwoken had been appearing all over it during the last week. 

Sebille gave a moment for everyone to process the information. The details were present in a thick report she had written to Gareth, placed beside the enormous map. She took enough courage to inform the last devastating piece of news, the one that had been a simple suspicion for so long, now confirmed. “I've also seen flying machines too.”

Everyone snapped their heads at her, eyebrows raised and widened eyes. That secret project, that only people from Arx knew about it, whose unique blueprints were a result of Sanders' ingenious and Fane's collaboration, were impossible to be known by the enemy, let alone to be reproduced. 

“You saw these ships?”

“They are better models of the one we have.”

A tense silence extended along the council while a single idea raised in their minds: someone was a spy; someone was betraying humans, dwarves, and elves alike. There were no more doubts about it.

Sebille extended on the table several maps she had stolen from Lizard soldiers. They showed the arrangement of more than seventy thousand units, gathered in three groups, covering the land before heading to the Stormdale peninsula. The military formation suggested that the attack was going to be focused on eroding the Guardian Keep defences, leading as many waves as their numbers allowed towards the fortress. 

Gareth estimated that with only fifty thousand of them the Keep's defences would collapse, and they would have to fight twenty thousand soldiers with only their Guardians, without taking into account the attacks of Voidwoken. The people living in the outer bailey of the fortress, the ones recently settled after the exodus, were going to be the first ones in being slaughtered. That precarious town built in a rush to contain the exodus of Arx had a simple function far away from being a defence. 

“We need to evacuate the refugees of Arx. Otherwise, that will be a massacre.” Ifan said. 

“We only have one flying machine.” Lysanthir added. 

Although Sanders had been working in developing more units, bigger and more fortified than the one they had running, the fight against Voidwoken had delayed their construction due to the lack of resources. Stormdale desert did not provide neither iron nor wood, and with the many trade roads blocked by Voidwoken swarms, the construction of ships of such ambitious proportions had turned into an impossible task. 

“We need to start the evacuation now, in that case.” Ifan said, “Healthy and younger individuals must be the first. I'll talk with Pap- Guardian Thrash, to see how he will handle them in Driftwood.”

Gareth nodded. He looked at Sebille and asked, “how many flying machines do they have?”

“Three. Maybe five.”

Ifan opened his eyes wide for a fraction of a second. “What a mess.” 

Although he was worried sick, Lysanthir remained silent for a long while. Then he chuckled, dragging all the council's attention to him. “Nobody can't deny Saheila is a seer.”

Sebille tilted her head, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

“Yesterday, I received a war owl message from her. She asked me to be prepared for her _ gift. _ She was going to come in a couple of days, with her gifted warriors.”

“What gift?” Gareth said. 

“You'll see.” 

The wicked smile on his face did not bring much tranquillity to everyone, but somehow, they managed to keep their hopes high. Those promising warriors were probably going to come in thousands, numerous enough to fight the magnitude of the Lizard offensive. Or at least they wanted to believe so.

That night, looking for shelter and relief, Ifan walked the long stairs up to the battlement and took his pipe. He sat on the border of the crenel, the dark sky up over his head, the long extended fortification of the Keep under his feet. The night was darker than usual, or maybe it was still day. It was hard to guess when the cracks in the Veil had been turning the day darker and darker over time. They still could enjoy some sunbeams during the morning, but how long would it take for the Sun to completely disappear under the unavoidable coming of the Child of Pandemonium? He took a long puff, noticing how the drudanae soothed his trembling arms. Who cared? Refraining his addition was useless if they were going to die in a few days. 

“Do you want to share some company?” 

Ifan smiled, recognising Lysanthir's voice immediately. He patted a free space of the crenel by his side, while taking a puff, never turning his head back. 

Content, Lysanthir accepted the invitation, taking advantage of the closeness to put his palm on Ifan's back as he sat on the border. His long body needed some extra space to fit in. For a moment of silence, he left his hand there, enjoying the warmth coming from Ifan's back. It was easily radiated through his casual clothes. Without noticing, or maybe simply ignoring it, Lysanthir reached Ifan's nape and scratched it slowly. Taking a long puff, Ifan closed his eyes and enjoyed the contact in combination with the drudanae, which made the touch more intense and sensual. He truly missed any kind of physical contact. Especially the intimate ones.

“What are you planning to do after dinner?” Lysanthir said. 

Sleepy, too relaxed for a quick response, Ifan opened his eyes slowly, and frowned at him. “What?”

“Any...” He looked aside, never wiping out his wicked smile, “... entertaining activity?”

Ifan chuckled. “What the hell are you thinking? Card game?”

“More like chamber games.”

A bit blushed, Ifan twisted his lips and looked at the sky. The Dragon's Claws(*) were still easy to see even with all those purple cracks everywhere. “Lysanthir...”

The elf took his hand away from Ifan's nape, and turning a little in his spot, pressed his back against the stone of the merlon, looking at the man in front of him. “What's the problem? It releases stress. And I'm not a stranger.” His wicked smile got broader. 

For a moment, Ifan looked at him, intensely, considering it. He could not deny the man was charming and unlike the last elf in his past, kind and gentle. Lysanthir could have been the person he must have needed when he lost Nueleth, not that nightmare of a man he had met in the Lone Wolves. But now… Now, the world was different.

“I know. You are a good friend.” Ifan said in Elven language, as he lowered his eyes, and his tone turned serious. “Let me ask you something.” 

Matching the mood, Lysanthir stopped adding his playful tone to his voice and observed the man in detail. The way his slightly trembling hand was holding the pipe, the calm breathing that was moving his chest up and down, the long locks of hair falling on his face, long beyond his shoulders, moving with the dark breeze of the night. His grey strands brightened in a different way than the rest of his hair. His crow's feet had become deeper since this chaos had started, since Sandor had died. 

“Sure.” Lysanthir kept speaking in Elvish too. It was good to have a long conversation in that language. To talk in it was probably going to feel deeper for Ifan. 

“I was wondering something. Do you remember that time in Arx, when you asked me to let you see into my future after you got those visions about me... mourning close to a pile of stones, in a forest nearby Arx?”

“Ah, _ that. _”

“If... I would have allowed you to read it back then... could it have prevented Sandor's death?”

Lysanthir lowered his head. He did not want to lie. It was true. It may have been prevented, had he found the cause of such vision. However, that cruel truth could not be said in a moment like this, a week away from a big battle. “It's hard to say for sure. After all, I don't have Saheila's powers. I only can share a bit of them if she allows me.” 

“That wasn't what you said back then.” He tapped his temple, “I have a good memory.” Then, he shook the pipe softly, “That's why I always need this. Too much memory for my own sanity.” 

Lysanthir's evasive answer was an answer in itself for Ifan; after all, he was good at reading in between the lines. He did not need a direct confirmation. Those vague words were the terrible answer that Ifan had been suspecting since Sandor died. He closed his eyes and a couple of tears fell. So much bitter guilt. "If only I would have allowed you..."

_ “ _ _ I'm here for you. _” Lysanthir said, still keeping the conversation in Elvish.

Ifan frowned, remembering the echo of the past. _ I'm here for you. _He had been like this before, just after he lost his whole pack of Lone Wolves; and the same words had been said to him at the edge of a pier, but by a different man. A man with sad brown eyes. 

He raised his teary eyes and shook his head. “Do you know why I can't simply sleep with you? Sandor is too fresh. And it is still fresh because I'm desperately keeping his memories alive inside me.”

Lysanthir frowned, confused. “It's been almost three years...”

“It's nothing, when you are a _ Dhaleram _.”

Lysanthir widened his eyes, and suddenly, a lot of past behaviours made sense. “Are you serious?”

Ifan curved his lips in a sad smile and took a puff. He released the smoke blowing it to the sky. “Nueleth's body was never found. As I told you time ago, she died in the Holy Mountain, defending a town. So paladin of her.” He smiled warmly, while her image, as detailed as his imperfect human mind allowed him, revived once again in his flesh. Some old and almost forgotten emotions she used to inspire in him bloomed again in his chest, recalling the small moments; the good ones, the bad ones, the all of them as his eyes glowed slightly with Source. He had to start using Source to keep alive the memories, in a mind whose nature was meant to forget. “I couldn't make her body return to her forest. I could not find another way to honour her but through my flesh.” With tired eyes, Ifan looked at Lysanthir, “That's how I decided... to be... _ this. _ I passed through the _ Dhaleram _ ritual. And I've been doing this for nine elves after the _ Deathfog _. It was the least I could do to... to try to amend my terrible mistakes.” He looked apart and took another puff. 

Lysanthir whistled. “Nine... it's a lot for a human.” He was aware of how much weakness that process added to a human mind.

“I know. And... and I'm doing this for Sandor too, in the same way I did it for Nueleth. He has turned my tenth honour.”

Lysanthir blinked. “As a _ Dhaleram _, you can't honour non-elves. Maybe when they are still alive, but... it's impossible to do so with dead ones. How... are you trying to honour him then?”

“My own style. I want to keep him alive. With just my memory, like I did with Nueleth. But it's painful. Especially since I keep remembering that I'm part of the reasons he is dead. It's....Overwhelming. It doesn’t allow wounds to heal. The older you get... the harder it is to keep memories...”

Lysanthir looked down. “The nature of the human mind is to forget, it's to erode their memories. That's how your people heal. That's why your people write.”

Ifan looked at him for a brief moment, a nervous smile, a rebel tear. “He said that once. With more fancy words, of course.” He nodded. He was more than aware of what human limitations meant. And still yet, he was determined to destroy himself, against his own nature, just to keep a piece of _ him _alive. 

At that moment Lysanthir understood why _ Dhaleram _ were almost extinct. Madness was always the most common overcome in them, despite their short lifespan. Their minds were unable to handle the weight of time, of endless mourning, of death. 

Ifan extended his trembling hand toward Lysanthir and kept it in the air. “Now you know why I could not let you lick me before. You can do it now, but it's under your risk. I'm still processing and fixing Sandor's memories in me. My flesh... is all about him. The rest of my memories are hard to reach for now.”

Lysanthir took Ifan’s hand, and honoured by the gesture, licked its back. 

A shock of images overwhelmed him. Sandor silently observing a campfire, infinite sadness washing his soul. A collar burning around his neck. A slip on Voidwoken ichor that made him fall. A failed kiss in that tavern underground while people clapped at them. A drunk Sandor pressing his forehead against Ifan's shoulder. A night in Driftwood pier where Sandor caressed Ifan's hair slowly. His body dying while three Source arrows pierced his chest. A laughing Sandor, in which joy reached his usually sad brown eyes. The first kiss mixed with drudanae. The insecurities of survival while travelling in the Lady Vengeance. That moment in the realm of the dead that ended into an intimate and mutual confession of their past between wine and chocolates. The warm gentle caresses of skin against skin while wrapped around blankets in a comfortable bed. Those happy brown eyes when Ifan asked him to be his right hand in Arx, after the end of Divinity. 

Lysanthir sighed. The following memories stopped coming into his mind. He needed more licks, but he respected their privacy. He did not take advantage of this situation. Holding Ifan's hand with his own, he pressed his forehead against those fingers, then to his cheek, and then to his chest. The traditional way to close the honour of a fallen one that has been shared. 

“Sandor Das Balurik. I see the good in you, I see the bad in you, I see the all in you,” Lysanthir whispered in Elvish, helping Ifan to honour Sandor's memory. 

Grateful, Ifan smiled at him with teary eyes. His memory was not enough to keep all those details. And he needed to be sure that, unlike Nueleth, someone else beside him could do it. “T-Thanks... Thank you.” Ifan whispered. His voice was broken and some tears jumped out of the corner of his eyes. Such an abysmal weight he had decided to carry alone. 

Lysanthir pulled Ifan and hugged him, squeezing him. “I wish I could heal something in you. I wish I could.” He whispered in the embrace. 

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Dragon’s Claws** [Headcanon]: Three strips-like regions in the sky, heavily populated with stars, that simulated a Dragon’s claw.

**Sadha** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3965) ]: Consort of the Red King during the game. According to the prophecy, The Red Prince and she were going to be the parents of dragons. 

** Gustavchen (dimension)** [Divinity: Original Sin II]: Tarquin explains by the end of the game that he will look for new challenges inspired by a written text that nobody can read with the exception of him. He claims that it was written by creatures that feed on your mind. In his ending, he disappears, suggesting he went to that creature’s dimension. Fandom has been speculating the possibility of a cameo of Tarquin in Baldur’s Gate III, since the presence of Mind Flayers and the WIP name of the game (BG3 was internally called “project Gustav'' to avoid leaks) may suggest this.

**Well of Ascension ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/The+Arena+of+the+One)]: End place of the Arena of the One, where the different Godwoken compete one another; the winner will drink from the Well of Ascension and become the new Divine. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

Once again, Ifan was carried in a rush toward Tarquin's studio, pressing his wounds while leaving a trail of blood drops in his wake. 

He and his group of Guardians had been sent to clear the last trade roads that were starting to become swarmed by Voidwoken. The problem had been ignored for too long, wishing it could not worsen, but when the last routes of incoming food had been compromised, they had no choice. 

The flying machine, up to that moment used on transporting resources and food from and to Driftwood, now was focused on the evacuation of the precarious town surrounding the Keep. So they truly needed a free trade road. If their strategic analysis was correct, they only had a few days before the Lizards would strike them.

“What now?” Tarquin said when he saw Lysanthir and DeSelby carrying Ifan, whose arm was twisted in an unnatural way, and a long stain of blood soaked his clothes. The man had his eyes closed tight as he endured the pain in silence. 

“Voidwoken.” DeSelby said. They helped Ifan to sit on a stretcher and then they left as soon as Tarquin started to work on the patient. 

That wound had been a consequence of a failure of Source. Fighting against two deep-dwellers, Ifan had lost his shield when the tail of one of them hit his back. He tried to counter the second attack, with a shield raised from the earth, made of stone. But the Source had flickered, stopping the movement of the stones half-way and allowing the maw of the creature to reach him. Instead of letting those teeth sink in his neck and chest, he used his own arm as a shield in an unconscious movement of self-preservation. The fangs sunk in his skin and destroyed his bone. Thanks to DeSelby's fast bashing, Ifan did not end as Voidwoken food. The Source weakening was finally reaching him with all its strength.

“Ah, I'm draining myself to heal you because of your irresponsibility.” Tarquin said while casting a fluctuating Source from his hands. Healing had always been a challenging art for him, no matter how much he would practise, it never went completely right. Adding the weakening of the Source to the challenge made it a lot worse. “And of course, Nyw is nowhere to be found, when we need him the most,” he muttered. 

Despite the small amount of Source that Tarquin could cast, it was enough for Ifan's bones to heal, and only the slash on the flesh remained, which could be treated with potions and traditional means.

“You should stop taking that damned drug.” Tarquin was in the other extreme of the stretcher, cleaning his bloody hands while Ifan was accepting Infirma's potion to drink it.

“It was a bloody Voidwoken that broke my arm. Not a pipe.” Ifan grumbled frowning at Tarquin.

“Because dropping your shield was a mere accident?” He said, staring at Ifan's trembling hand.

“We don't have time for this.”

“I don't know how much time  _ I _ have.” Tarquin said. 

Those words tensed Ifan’s jaw and curious, he observed Tarquin, never soothing his frown. The necromancer placed his palms up and tried to cast a flame of Source. It was small, and flickering, until it disappeared. 

* * *

Resting. That was all what Tarquin told him to do for a couple of days. His shoulder was not fully recovered yet, and now he had to add to his list of physical disadvantages the new wounds all over his left arm, which were, for the worse, cursed wounds no less. They used to take much longer to heal, leaving always nasty scars. Although, that was the least of his worries. 

Ifan headed to his room as soon as Tarquin stopped scowling at him. He could rest in his bed while taking a hint that his body needed desperately. Now he had to hide this habit a bit if he wanted to convince others that he still had control on it.

On his way to the room, he found all the silent monks of the Keep standing along the corridor, straight and immobile, like statues of guardians protecting a cursed tomb. From the long row of mind-absent creatures, he found a familiar one sitting in a corner, hugging his legs, looking in front of him with those disturbing white eyes. It was Gregorio. He had a blanket over his shoulders and a small bag by his side. Ifan approached him and squatted in front of him.

The monk tilted his head at the slight variation of air. “Ifan.” He whispered.

Ifan smiled, surprised by that sharp sense of smell. He observed him in detail. His white eyes seemed to be less clouded than usual. “Good to see you got your bandage removed.”

Gregorio nodded, “Yes, it's only a pain in the back of the eyes now.”

But sadly, that experiment had not given any good result. His lack of sight was the same as before. 

“What happened, lad? With all of you, here, in the corridor.”

“The silent monks had to give...  _ our _ rooms to the new elven soldiers that will come soon, so they can sleep better. After all, silent monks don't need... beds.”

“Who the hell gave this order?”

“I don't know. It's okay. Silent monks don't mind.” He said tightening his arms around his legs. 

Ifan looked around again.  _ Yeah _ . Those disturbing creatures with sealed lips and a glowing collar that would give them an advantage in battle needed neither rest nor food. But Gregorio had been the last one of the incomplete silent monks that was still under treatment, in the middle of the process to recover his humanity. Unlike the others, he was half-way, still struggling to eat, to feel hunger, to sleep. None of those activities felt natural in his body, but they were needed to sustain him, since Source had never done it.

“You can't sleep on the floor.” Ifan said.

Gregorio half-smiled. “Not much of a choice.”

Ifan clicked his tongue and touched Gregorio's cheek with the back of his hand. It was cold. “Unlike them, you can't control your temperature. You will get ill. That's the last thing your body needs now” He sighed, knowing that asking for a free room in the Keep, now, was impossible. The rooms had been few after the Arx exodus, accommodating rooms for hundreds of elves had probably collapsed the space in the Keep, “Take your things. Come with me.”

With the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his small bag in one hand, Gregorio followed the sound of Ifan’s footsteps. Crossing the corridors and beyond, they went into Ifan's room. 

“This room is small. Hope you don't mind sharing a bed.” Ifan said. 

Stopping his steps at the door frame, Gregorio raised his eyebrows without answering. That awkward silence revealed his thoughts to Ifan who, uncomfortable, spoke immediately afterwards, “Oh, no. Don't get me wrong. I mean resting.” He blushed at the clarification. 

Gregorio pressed his scarred lips in a fine line and nodded several times. “Of course.. Who... Who would like to touch a monster. I was just surprised that you... would not mind sharing a bed with someone... like me.”

Ifan looked at him, frowning. He hated that kind of comments, it made him remember his worst side; his weakest side, heavily exploited by Aywyn in his past. “If you are saying that because of your skin, you should know elven skin has a lot more texture, and it's several times harder.”

“And do you like that?”

“Yes... Remember I married an elf once.” Ifan moved the bed a little bit away from the wall to make a small corridor on both sides of it. “No! I mean...” He blushed, “I'm not saying that because... I want... uh... I wouldn't...er... Damn.” Ifan sighed and crossed his arms, looking at Gregorio's expressionless face which made it harder to understand him. “I mean... you are not a monster. You are a survivor. A hell of a survivor if you ask me.”

Gregorio tilted his head and twitched his lips in something that almost looked like a smile. “Mn.”

“Your skin means nothing.”

“Would you touch it, then? Given the chance.”

Ifan frowned, swallowing. “Look. I…”

“Or do you really want to be with Lysanthir?”

Ifan let an angry sigh come out from his chest. “Hey. I don't care about any of that. Just don't get the wrong ideas. I didn't want you to get a cold by sleeping in the corridor. The only space I have under control is this crappy small room, with a damned small bed, and a small bathtub; this is the great room of the Commander of Arx. So I use it the way I want. Nothing more to read here, am I clear?”

Gregorio said nothing and nodded obediently. 

Ifan removed his clothes in the safety of Gregorio's blindness and took a bath while Gregorio reached the bed to sit on its edge. Uncomfortable, he turned his body a bit in order to give his back to the place where the sound of water was coming, a gesture of respect for Ifan’s privacy. Shyly, Gregorio proceeded to remove his own clothes and wear the ones for bed.

While rinsing his body, Ifan observed him. The light of a single candle was not enough to see the details of that deformed skin but it let raise the grotesque shadows projected on it. Gregorio was far from being healed of his skin condition. Tarquin could not make it recede, in the best case scenario, he could only slow it down. Same as his own.

Once he was done with the bath, Ifan sat at the border of the bed and proceeded to clean his wounded arm with some potions. He bandaged it carefully, hissing when the pressure was wrongly applied. 

Gregorio went into the bed and made several noises of pleasure as he slid into it. Surprised, Ifan turned to see him over his own shoulder.

“Everything okay, lad?” He said, a bit worried. 

“Too much. This bed is heaven. So soft, and warm...” he sniffed, “and so fresh.”

“Were you expecting a dog smell or something like that?”

“No. But maybe some… soldier scent.”

Ifan scoffed, “Soldier scent? The hell is that? If I'm not in the open, camping, I bathe myself before going to bed.  _ Always _ . Don’t pay attention to what that Tarquin says about me or anyone.” Ifan frowned, taking a second to process another bit of information. “You say soft? Where have you been sleeping all this time?” Ifan’s bed had nothing special. It seemed an over-reaction to claim it as such a pleasant place.

“On a stretcher. With many blankets under me to make a mattress.”

“Damn, Tarquin.”

Gregorio chuckled. “He said that uncomfortably sleeping helps to lightly dream, so the memories could be more easily remembered when they emerge in a dream... or in nightmares.”

Ifan rolled his eyes. “Fuck scholars.”

“He seems to be wise.”

“Uh? Like asking you to go alone to the market in a place you don't know, with people you don't know? Very wise indeed.” Ifan resumed the treatment and took a potion flask, he drank a bit and waited for its effect, wincing in silence at its bitter taste.

Gregorio chuckled. “Well... actually... that was a lie.”

Struggling with his trembling hand, Ifan was going to cork the bottle, but Gregorio’s words made him halt on spot. “A lie?”

“It was just me. I wanted to go and buy some stuff. However, I did it based on what Tarquin told me.”

Ifan scoffed. “You could just have told me, you know? Anyway, what did he truly tell you then?”

“Memories in the flesh.”

Ifan’s sigh trembled. He knew what that meant. It was a concept that humans had acquired from elves several years ago. Sandor had explored the implications of the elven tongues in the recovery process of silent monks. The fact that they could collect memories in the flesh suggested that part of such living creature's experiences were engraved in it. Therefore, the flesh was the key to recover a silent monk. If Source was the true origin of a creature's personality, part of it had to be imprinted in the flesh too.So, if bodies had their own memories, recovering a lost monk could not be so hard to accomplish through the recollection of Source scraps engraved in their flesh. 

“What about that?” Ifan said. 

Gregorio sat on the bed and inclined toward the floor to reach the small bag he had brought with him. “Can I ask you a favour?”

Placing the potion on his stand night table, Ifan turned to see Gregorio, accepting the bag he was giving to him. He opened it. Inside, he found all the ingredients they had bought days ago, and a couple of scroll papers. “What's this?”

“I need your eyes to see the measures. I can't do it on my own.”

Ifan took a small measuring cup with numbers on its surface. “I have terrible experiences about following orders of things I don't understand. I'm going to ask this  _ just _ once. What's this?”

Gregorio paused for a moment, “Ingredients. To craft a scroll. For magic I don't have, but for some dark, ironic reason, I can remember how to craft.”

“Magic for what?”

Gregorio's lips trembled. “It's a kind of chameleon spell that can raise, hopefully, the memory stuck in the flesh. Do you know it?”

Ifan raised an eyebrow, suspicious. He identified some ingredients, trying to remember what Sandor had told him time ago about dangerous compounds of magic. Upon inspection, he concluded that nothing deadly was in that bag. It was a relief. Living with a scholar who was all the time rambling about boring stuff and spreading thousands of books everywhere in the house had got a good side effect after all. Ifan smiled, nostalgic at that memory, at Sandor. He truly missed that man conquering, with piled books, every free space in their house.

Ifan dragged a stool to use it as an improvised table and spread the ingredients on the bed. “Okay. Following orders,” He said. 

Gregorio smiled at him, or at least at the direction he thought Ifan was. 

Helped by his nose and Ifan's eyes, Gregorio could finally craft three scrolls of such strange spell. The ink, a combination of all those ingredients, was spread on the pieces of paper and sealed with a flame of Source that, despite its flickering intensity, Ifan could cast to craft them. 

At the end, he put the scrolls in that small bag and gave it back to Gregorio, whose smile became wider. “Thank you so much.” The silent monk said.

“Anytime. Hope you can remember something with that.” 

Finally, Ifan blew out the candle in the night stand table and went into the bed. Sleep did not come immediately, instead, he kept looking at the ceiling. 

Some rays of the moonlight entered from the small windows at the top of the wall. The purple colour, spread everywhere, and the cold, slipping between the blankets, made him remember the oppressive sensation of cells.

He sighed, nostalgic. Certainly, this room was so different from the one he used to share with Sandor: a warm one with big enchanted windows that allowed the entrance of moonlight and sunbeams alike and prevented that anything from the inside could be seen to the outside.

That room had shelves full of books covering its walls. Over time, part of those shelves were emptied and turned into precarious weapon racks, displaying arrows, crossbows, daggers, and swords in them. In a corner, far away from the shelves, there was a bathtub with enchanted curtains where more often than not they would take a bath together, relaxing and enjoying the intimacy of the moment.

There was also a closet that contained sets of the most ridiculous layered robes he could imagine. Ifan's presence was also clear in it when his simple casual clothes and some leather armours started to appear among the thickest robes. The best proof of their life together was there, in that warm, little room.  _ That _ had been heaven, a shelter in the heart of Arx, a little refuge now buried under the rubble of reality.

He sighed, as a piercing pain compressed his chest, and fell asleep. 

* * *

Although the morning had begun hours ago, the sky was still dark, barely getting lightened in the East. The main group of people that had been living in the town for months was preparing their departure from Stormdale. Gathered in the Keep’s docks, an impressive number of people of every race were lining up to go aboard the flying machine. Their final destiny: Driftwood. Until the day of battle, the ship was going to travel several times. If they were lucky, they would finish evacuating all the Arx exiles by the night. In the worst case scenario, the oldest ones would perish with the Guardians, trapped in the middle of the battle ahead.

Saheila arrived at the Keep's entrance soon after the flying machine left. Happy of meeting her, Lysanthir knelt before her, even though she laughed and dismissed such a gesture immediately. 

Despite her blindfold, she could see the rest of the group behind Lysanthir. With her chin lifted, a hand gently resting on Lysanthir’s forearm, she spoke in that quivering tone of hers. 

“My old friends, it's good to see you all.” A sudden frown appeared on her face and lowered her head. Her words had been inaccurate.  _ Everyone _ was not there, even though it felt as if it were. 

“Saheila...” Lysanthir reached out her hands. 

She smiled, “My dear friend. It has been so long. How do these lands treat you?”

“Warmly.”

Approaching Saheila whose face was turned towards them despite her blindness, Gareth and Ifan shared a gentle smile. The elven seer seemed to emanate a halo of tranquillity that affected elves and humans alike. Her help was what they needed at that moment, a selfless hand willingly to offer as much as possible. This small gesture, especially in desperate times, was what allowed them to keep hope when the only reasonable action to take was to flee.

Releasing Lysanthir's hands, she headed to Ifan and pressed her hand on his shoulder. “I feel you, my friend.  _ Lethanavis Dhaleram, Ir abelas. _ ”

“ _ Ma' serannas, _ ” Ifan said and looked at Gareth asking for permission to speak. “We are grateful for your help, Saheila... but... eh...” His words were hard to come out. He did not want to sound ungrateful, but Saheila’s forces were not more than fifty more elves. They had expected a large army. But fifty? Were  _ these _ the promising reinforcements? Even if each of them could fight a hundred Lizards — something he knew it was impossible — the combination of Guardians and Elves would never match the enemy's numbers. His mental words, maybe heard internally or maybe seen in one of the many futures Saheila watched every second, made her chuckle.

“Trust in us, my friend. We are enough for those numbers.”

Ifan sighed, looking at Lysanthir whose wicked smile shone brighter and his nodding exuded confidence. 

Thinking the same way as Ifan, Gareth cast his doubts in his own mind, which somehow, Saheila gathered gently. She turned toward him, “I see it. But you must not fear the day before the battle. The war of races approaches. The elves shall stand...” Saheila moved her head, as if she were aiming for a particular direction she could not find. After a moment, she talked directly to a dark corner far away from the Keep entrance. “...and  _ you _ shall fall. You can't run, and you can't hide. You shall not see the end of us.”

Understanding the situation instantly, Lysanthir drew his axes and turned on his heels, frowning at the dark corridor. When he was going to rush to the place, Saheila's hand — extended in front of him — stopped him. “This is not the time. It will be soon. When the moon falls red.” She said.

Ifan surveyed that corner, a long corridor between two precarious houses, and felt  _ it _ . That annoying sensation he had been perceiving lately in the back of his head, telling him that something dangerous was lurking around.  _ It _ was there, for a brief moment. Then, it disappeared. 

Putting aside the strange event, the Guardians led Saheila and her warriors to their humble rooms. They needed to rest after such a long trip. The elves had covered those long distances by foot, taking advantage of the journey to analyse the strategies that those lands had to offer against the Lizards. 

Certainly, it was a blessing to count on Saheila and her sight. It was known that Saheila had always wanted to stop the Lizard expansion for decades. She knew perfectly that the more the Lizards expanded, the more her people would be trapped into slavery. It was not a secret. It was even safe to assume that, at some point, the few elves that the  _ Deathfog  _ had spared would extinguish under the Lizard claws. Measures had to be taken. 

During all that time, Saheila kept a low profile. Although she had many opportunities to gather the Guardians — her most powerful allies — to fight against the Lizards when they were still weak and extending along the North, she did not take them. It was needed to wait for the exact propitious moment. The  _ traces of success present in the weave of time _ , as she used to explain it, had guided her towards this point, in the coasts of Stormdale. Everything had been endured, and blood had been spilled for years to give them this unique opportunity for success. A place where the interconnection with the minds and bodies could reach its highest peak.

That was the true reason why she ended up in the Keep. According to her words, it was going to be an historic moment, so she had to be in the right place, at the right moment, in the right historical stage.

No matter how fancy she could explain all that, for Gareth and Ifan it was obvious that these fifty warriors — no matter what miracle they could perform — would share the same destiny that the Guardians defending the Keep: being slaughtered. 

Maybe they should plan an evacuation of soldiers too. Perhaps losing the Keep, the core itself of the Guardian Order, was not as bad as their thought at first. It was better to keep on living to fight another day. 

They only had a week to prepare for the resistance or flee. The elven presence had boosted the morale of the Guardians just a bit, but Ifan — experienced in war as he was — knew this was a lost cause. They were going to die, no matter what strategy they would use. If Arhu and Malady were there, and not lost in some random dimension, maybe chances of success could be slightly higher. But without their magical power in a situation like this, with several hundreds of Source-drained soldiers in addition with Saheila's few fighters, and despite Tarquin's warfare tricks and Infirma's bombs and poisons; they would only delay the unavoidable. What could they do against seventy thousands of fine fighters such as the Lizards?  _ Seventy thousand _ . 

It was the end. 

* * *

Before going to sleep after a busy day, Lysanthir gave a last patrol along the silent streets of the town surrounding the Keep. With almost no population due to the evacuation, it looked like one of those calm nights in Arx, where the nocturnal breeze brought the scent of the forest nearby, and the moon, less cold than usual, gently illuminated his steps. 

From the corner of his eye, he caught a figure walking towards him. It had an ephemeral nature, dark and hidden. It felt as if it were the entity that had been lurking around the shadows of the Keep for so long. Still under the effect of Saheila's mysterious words toward the dark corridor, Lysanthir grabbed his axes, quickly, and stood on-guard. However, he put them down when the approaching figure spoke in Elvish. 

“ _ Tel'enfenim, da'len. _ " [Never fear, my little friend]

Lysanthir put his axes in his belt and observed the hooded figure getting closer. “Who are you?”

The man moved part of his hood, revealing his bark skin marked by time while long white strands fell by his sides reaching his chest. Lysanthir moved his lips, wordless, as he suddenly remembered that man; the old elven healer from Arx who had been looking for a new life after the nightmare of the  _ Deathfog _ .

“What are you doing here? You didn't evacuate.” Lysanthir said.

“I want to fight. To defend this Keep. Maybe that's my fate, as I could not fulfil my purpose in the forests, decades ago.”

Lysanthir frowned, appreciating the shape of the old man, a bit bent forward. A posture that seemed forced, though. “Forgive my honest opinion, but you don't look like a fitting warrior.”

The elder laughed like those who keep dark secrets, and spoke, “Give to this old man his last wish. The world is not going to last much longer. I'm alone; lost my children, my siblings, my parents, my history. Burnt to ashes, suffocated by mist. Let me defend this little bit.”

Arms crossed, Lysanthir tilted his head, as if he were considering it, “I'm not the one who decides who can go to battle, anyway.”

“Bring me to the one who does.” The elder smiled under the hood. 

Unsure, Lysanthir took a long moment to think about it. He squinted, remembering the first time he had met this elf in Arx. “You told me that you wanted to avoid the commander. Well, he is the one who makes the calls. He, and General Gareth.”

With a strange smile that never reached his eyes, Nyw nodded, “In terrible times like these, one must learn to put aside the wounds of the past.”

Considering those words, tilting his head from one side to the other, Lysanthir made his decision. Inviting the old elf to walk behind him, they headed to the entrance of the Keep. Passing along the corridors, they reached the weaponry room. There, they found Ifan, checking for the last time in the day every sword, shield, and crossbow. 

At the sound of steps approaching, Ifan put his pipe aside, pretending that the drudanae scent in the whole room was impossible to be sensed. Neither of both elves missed the gesture. 

“Ifan, I found this man. His name is Nyw. He wants to talk to you.” Lysanthir said.

“Ah, the famous healer...” Ifan said, as he put aside the shield he was inspecting and hid his hands by crossing his arms. His curious eyes were fixed on the hooded figure. “What can I do for you?”

Lysanthir turned a bit and looked at the elder, expecting for him to explain, but the man only remained in silence. “Let us be alone, please.” The man finally whispered to Lysanthir. 

The sound of that voice made Ifan frown suddenly. With a shrug and a yawn, Lysanthir pretended to leave the weaponry, giving them some privacy, but he remained hidden beyond the frame door. Something was feeling too odd with that elf.

“It was a long journey to find you again, my little pup.” Nyw said once both were alone.

Ifan opened wide his eyes, his breath stopped by the shock, and his heartbeat sped up. This time, loud and clear, that gravelly voice  directly  catapulted him to his past; his skin shivered in pleasant fear, while his mind, suddenly too clear for the hint he had just smoked, was insisting for him to flee. This was not the suicidal behaviour of a moth flying toward a fire, dazzled by the light. This was the fire turned into a wildfire, chasing after the moth that had learnt not to fall twice in the same trap. 

“It's a deep pleasure to see that my voice still has that effect on you. Is it hard for your skin to forget mine?”

Lips numbed, Ifan blinked, trying to have some control on his mind. The jump to that dark, bloody, twisted past was always hard for him to handle, especially now that he was dealing with longings and desires caused by his recent loss. The mixture of both emotions confused him. 

“A… Ay… Aywyn?”

The elf removed his hood, and a malicious grim curved his lips. His silver long hair contrasted with his dark reddish skin. His eyes, grey, sinister, and cold as death itself, looked at him. 

“My little pup. I've heard of you from far away lands. A wolf whose fur turned grey and his fangs silver. So many tales about wild nature, to end up as an astray dog, just because a weak little bird became your fancy toy.” 

The man walked around Ifan, slowly; like a predator does while measuring their prey. Full of mistrust, Ifan kept on spinning on his place, always facing that man. His eyes, full of terror, shone like those of a wounded deer before the crossbow of his hunter.

The elf continued, “You know, you’ve surprised me. I had thought that naive elf was your recent whim. But you changed. You didn't only turn into a lap-dog. Your tastes did too.” The man paused and chuckled devilishly. “I've done quite an effect on you to twist your fancies towards humans, haven't I? Towards quite weak, vulgar humans, no less.”

Ifan wrinkled his nose, his fangs subtlety peered below his lips. “What the fuck are you doing here? Have you been watching me all this time?”

The elf tilted his head and crossed his arms. “No. Of course not. As I said, at first, I was confused about your new toy. But when I realised my mistake... I needed to be sure you would enjoy that vulgar bone long enough for you to be fond of it.” He smiled. “And you did it. Even to decide to be marked. I was jealous. You promised me I was going to be the only one to mark you, my little cub.”

Ifan swallowed, repulsed, and sighed mixed with a growl. “Don't call me  _ that _ .”

“You used to like it.” He smiled, “The biggest irony was that, while I was observing that silly elf of yours, I worked in Arx with  _ your  _ tasted toy, pretending to care for healing. When I realised my mistake, it was a  _ delight _ . I had always had your lovely bird at my reach. Oh, dear, it was  _ delightful _ . I wanted to break him, to pluck his filthy grey feathers, to taste him. It was so easy thanks to your delusional ideas about my people.”

Ifan frowned, “What?”

“Your love for the elves is your doom. I always told you that,  _ Ma Vhenan _ . You taught him wrongly. You taught him to trust in any elf, in their bullshit of their pain of the  _ Deathfog _ and whatnot. I only needed to use that word for him to help me blindly. He talked to me about healing, about spells, and Source. About black mirrors, about  _ flying machines. _ ” He cleared his throat and changed his voice. His naturally grave voice, turned to another soft and a bit more high-pitched one. When he modulated it properly, he continued. “Mestre, I'm Nyw, an ancient elf who lost too much in the mist of the  _ Deathfog _ . Let me rebuild my life here, start over again, where the pain doesn't follow me. In healing others, I may find healing to myself.” He cleared his voice and returned to his usual deep tone. “He loved that crap. You always loved that crap too.  _ Healing.” _ He chuckled. 

“Nyw... you were... Nyw.” Ifan closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, and forced himself to breathe again, since he had been holding the air for a long while. This scorpion had been so close to them, all this time. The poisonous presence of that elf was filling him with guilt and anger; and despite having been free of his manipulating words for years, he was not completely immune to them and the harm that they could still inflict. 

“He protected you a lot.” The elf continued, knowing he was obtaining the desired effect on Ifan, and resumed his steps around him, just to test his guard. It had been a success. Now he could walk around Ifan without being followed by the prey's terrified eyes. Ifan's back was completely exposed. Now, he had control. “I asked him once if he knew the assassin of  _ my people, _ ” His tone was full of sarcasm, “The Death-bringer also called Ben-Mezd. Can you imagine he didn't say a word?” He chuckled a bit, “He was fucking you every night, but he didn't say a word. Not even the slightest mistake of slipping a bit of information in the wrong moment. No. He was very skillful at keeping dark secrets and derailing topics, always saying something about redeeming mistakes of the past and that kind of bullshit. He was also a crooked mind, wasn't he? Your taste can't change  _ that _ much.”

“Aywyn, stop this crap.”

“He liked you, a little. I'll give you that. But not much. You have to be quite aware that he loved much more the power of knowledge than yourself, right? He chose a Black Mirror over you. Even if it meant the death of the whole city with a  _ Deathfog _ accident.”

“What the fuck you want?”

Oh, the wolf was getting nervous. The elf smiled at him, his grey eyes shining, “Nothing more than helping my  _ Dhaleram _ fellow. Human memories are too weak to keep. And you may have some details... foggy. You know, he was a child of humans, thirsty for knowledge. I just told him that maybe working more in the Black Mirror would provide better results and more satisfaction than putting all that energy into an astray lap-dog who grew fond of leashes. In short words, that you were not worth the trouble. You never were. And he chose.”

Ifan blinked, looking down. That had to be a lie. Sandor was a smart person, he would have never been manipulated in that way. However, it was true that, in the end, he had chosen a Black Mirror over... everything else.

Those words were twisted and confusing, as it had always been the sinister elf that pronounced them. Ifan knew that he was an easy prey for him, he had been conditioned by that man before, and despite time had healed him and made him unlearnt bad habits, the scars and the echoes of a blind obedience were there, deep in his soul. He shook his head, snarling. 

“You, looking for me here. It doesn't seem to be the case of something not worth the trouble.” Ifan hissed. 

“Oh, don't get me wrong, my little cub. Me being here has nothing to do with your worthless soul,  _ Ma Vhenan _ .”

“Shut up.”

“You see... I have a  _ contract _ .” Aywyn pronounced that last word with his graver tone. “ _ Glechou dumar.” _

Ifan frowned, his jaw tense as the sinews of his neck stood out. His hands, closed in tight fists, were trembling. He kept glaring at Aywyn. “Roost is dead. The Lone Wolves are gone too. There are no more contracts.”

“Oh, yes, and your friend, a redhead woman, sings songs about that feat. So shameful. To kill the friend that gave you so much, when you had nothing in your life. So ungrateful of you. But that's just a human habit, isn't it? All Rhalic's children are the same." He looked at him up and down. “That's why I like you.”

He tossed a paper imbued in Source toward Ifan, who caught it in the air. It had a broken seal of the typical Lone Wolf contract. It asked to kill Saheila, and one of the most tricky commanders of the Guardians,  _ The Hound, _ also known as Ifan ben-Mezd. 

"I was expecting to torture your fancy toy a little more, maybe to recall the old good times that you and me shared, but in him. Just to add a little bit of spice to his dull soul, but I couldn't. The Black Ring broke him first."

Ifan widened his eyes. “What?! Are you talking about the attack at the forest hut? You know what happened to him?”

“A group of Black Ring members broke him. I heard him screaming for  _ you _ to save him. It must be sad to keep your hopes so high, just to realise that your lover is not coming to save you. Because he never could save anyone. He doesn't know how to save anything. That's why he likes so much all that crap about healing. It's a good excuse for after his failures.”

“Shut up,” Ifan crumbled the contract and threw it to the elf, his eyes full of restrained tears. The ball of paper hit the elf's chest and fell on the ground. 

“It's true, nonetheless.”

“Who paid you for this?”

"You know that Lone Wolves never say anything about their contractors." He cleared his voice again and changed it to sound like Roost's; the perfect imitation of his raspy tone “We have a narrowed vision of life. Let the others worry about good and evil, we only care for the pay.”

"Fuck the Lone Wolves."

“Such an ungrateful child.” Aywyn shook his head slowly, as he clicked his tongue several times. “Well, this was a beautiful reunion, but it is over, my little cub. Time to give your fur to  _ your _ papa.”

After a blast of Source, the elf adopted a fighting stance; small shield on one hand, a mace charged with cursed Source on the other. Surprised by the display of something he had never seen before, Ifan recoiled some steps and drew his own sword and shield.

Aywyn leaped towards him, delivering a powerful hit with the mace that Ifan’s shield barely blocked. It dented its surface prominently, leaving a sticky dark red substance on it from where black cursed tentacles — or maybe worms — started to erode the metal. Ifan shook the shield violently, trying to get rid of those creatures, but before he could do it, half of it fell apart. If that mace touched him, he was as good as dead.

The mace swayed several times, while Ifan dodged, stepping back, observing the elf’s body. He needed a small hole in his defence, big enough to pierce his sword in that chest. Displaying an incredible physical condition for an old elf, Aywyn rounded Ifan, to have easy access to his back. Noticing the elf’s intentions, Ifan spun, blocking a deadly mace with his sword. The tension between their weapons was too much for Ifan’s weakened arms, so he faltered.

The sword was thrown far away from him, half eroded by the mace’s leaking substance. Rolling to the side, Ifan avoided once again the touch of that mace, but his back hit a weapon rack, stopping his evasive movement midway. He knelt, confused, and grabbed his trembling arm, darting his most threatening look at that elf. 

Enjoying the pitiful image in front of him, knowing the meaning of the man's trembling hands, Aywyn rested his mace on his shoulder, and from his height, looked down at Ifan with a sadistic smile. “Your old habits die hard. No matter how much you brag, you always return to the leash.  _ Always _ .” 

The elf lifted the mace ceremoniously, aiming to Ifan's head, but when he was almost going to deliver the last blow, the ground under his feet shook. Maybe Ifan’s hands could not hold a sword, but he was still a Source master. So he made the ground tremble, and some plaques and stakes erupted violently from it, in a last attempt to pierce the elf. 

However, Aywyn was too old to be tricked by that. He jumped immediately, placing his own shield below, holding position in front of Ifan, close enough for his mace to reach. He was determined to accomplish his contract. 

This acrobatic movement allowed an open access to the elf’s chest that Ifan did not miss. Summoning a crossbow made of Source, Ifan aimed to the elf's heart. With his shield at his feet, Aywyn had no chance to cover himself from the rain of Source arrows. However, in the very moment that Ifan released the arrows, his Source flickered, and the whole weapon — arrows included — disappeared. 

_ Dammit _ .

Aywyn smiled, triumphant, and lifted his mace full of dark Source. Ifan closed his eyes. He had lost. 

But the hit never came. Instead, the mace fell on the ground, and a guttural sound made Ifan look up again. He saw Aywyn’s throat completely slit, and the side of his armpit’s sinews cut open to paralyse his limbs. Behind him, a taller elf with eyes still burning in Source, kept the axes stuck into the bark skinned body; just in case. 

“Fuck you,” Aywyn whispered, drowning his words in copious dense sap-blood coming out from his mouth. 

“Nobody lies to me like that and lives to tell the tale.” Lysanthir said, beheading the elf with a fast movement of his axes. The head rolled on the ground and the body fell soon after, slowly spreading that red thick liquid.

When the tension was finished, and Lysanthir kicked the body a couple of times, just to be sure it was dead, he put his axes in his belt and helped Ifan to stand up. 

“Are you okay?” Lysanthir asked. Ifan nodded, unable to avert his eyes from that body. “I'm sorry. I didn't know he was... a Lone Wolf?”

Ifan shook his head, too slowly, as if he were in trance, lost in his memories. To see Aywyn ending in this way was a mixture of relief and grief. That elf had exploited every weakness he had after he left the Divine Order. Drown in addictions and purposeless roaming, that elf had given to him the punishment he was looking for since the  _ Deathfog _ destroyed everything in his life. For that twisted gift, Ifan loved him. Not the same love he had shared with Nueleth, but a bittered, festered love. The only love he could offer when his soul had turned into a dirty bloody rag infested with endless guilt. 

Nobody was more fitting for punishing Ifan than Aywyn, an old elf that had been destined to become the Scion of his people, but for a twisted irony, he denied that honour and ran away from them. Living on the edge of a cruel human world, surrounded by the wickedest people he could find, his personality became cynical and sadistic. He found in the Lone Wolves the perfect excuse to do what he wanted the most: to bring punishment to his people. That was how he became the rare elven Lone Wolf that lusted after elven targets. A pleasure that Ifan never could understand, but as he had done with everything in his life during that time, he would simply look aside. He could only care for the intoxicating punishment that Aywyn, and only Aywyn, could provide him. He did not need to care about anything else. 

“It's a long, sick story. But yeah.” Ifan finally managed to speak. He still could feel fear and desire running through his veins even though that man was dead. Certainly, he had been conditioned so much by that man, so aberrantly tamed, that his body’s desires were completely disconnected from his mind. 

“Are... are you okay? He said.. strange things.” Lysanthir placed his hand on Ifan's shoulder, a touch that surprisingly caused a sudden slight twitch under his hand. Ifan had never reacted like that under his touch before. After a fraction of a second, his muscles relaxed and allowed that friendly squeeze. “I'm sorry. I was listening in a corner. I... I feel... responsible. I'm sorry I didn't know this man was.. so...”

“Evil? He always was. But what he said... Sandor.... Sandor asked for help.  _ My _ help.” Ifan winced.

Lysanthir looked at Ifan's hands which, despite resting by his sides, kept trembling non-stop. “Couldn't he have lied?”

“I don't know... Maybe.”

Lysanthir sighed deeply, took some distance from Ifan, and squatted in front of the body. He wrinkled his nose. 

Curious, Ifan frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I hope you can appreciate... what I'm going to do. Because this asshole needs no fucking honour... and I bet his flesh tastes to a mouldy book full of dead moths.” Lysanthir cut Aywyn's finger with his axe and looked at Ifan before attempting to eat it. 

“No, Lysanthir. Please...” Ifan squatted beside him and squeezed the elf's arm with his trembling hand. “I... I know him very well. It's... twisted to the core. Evil. Don't.”

“But I can see if he lied about Sandor.” 

Ifan moved his lips, unable to decide if he wanted or not to know, but at the same time, shame washed his soul. His past self was engraved upon that flesh, a past he always regretted deeply. He did not want to share that either. So, Ifan took the piece of flesh from Lysanthir's hands, and threw it to the ground. “Trust me. You will see things that you don't need too. Especially not when we are a few days away from a big battle. I... I can live with that truth or lie. If Sandor wanted me there or not... it doesn't matter anymore. I failed him either way.”

Lysanthir looked at the lifeless body and with a fast movement of his hand, he covered it with flames. The finger was still there, a bit far away from them. “You sure?”

“I'll live. I always do.” Ifan whispered.

Lysanthir snapped his fingers again and the last piece of flesh of that twisted elf was turned into ashes. He gathered Ifan's sword — or what was left of it — and gave it to him. Ifan accepted it without looking at it, his sight was still lost over that body slowly turning into ashes. Burning elven flesh smelled so different to a human one.

“Let's head to our rooms. Enough action for today...” Lysanthir said as Ifan nodded, silently. “And I'm sorry. I thought... he was honest about fighting... I can't believe I let him live in Arx all these years.”

Frowning, open wide eyes, Ifan snapped his head at Lysanthir. “What? Why I never knew about that?”

“He...” Lysanthir squinted at the ashes, “...he always told me that he was a survivor of the  _ Deathfog _ . That he knew you were responsible for that. And even though he didn't want revenge, he didn't want to see you either. And... being such a good healer, I didn't think twice in keeping you both far away...”

Ifan sighed. “Yes, he knew I would recognise him even by his shape. Manipulative to the core, so proper of him.”

"I'm so sorry, Ifan, I..."

“Don't be. He was always too good to manipulate people. His code name inside the Lone Wolves used to be  _ crooked-tail scorpion _ ”

Lysanthir chuckled. “Crooked tail?”

“He was more poisonous and twisted than any average scorpion you can find out there.”

“What undesirable friends you used to have.”

“I used to be... too lost.”

They remained silent all their way back. When Ifan reached his room, he stopped at the door.

“Thank you. You saved my life tonight.” Ifan said. 

“A pleasure. But... I'm sorry I didn't intervene before.. I was...“ He looked at Ifan's hand. “I was giving you time to deal with it by yourself... but... your hands.” He lifted his eyes to meet Ifan's, those beautiful tired green eyes that had lost so much glint. “And... I saw your Source, Ifan. I thought you were not experiencing  _ it _ ... Well, not so critically at least.”

Ifan swallowed. “To be honest, I don't know if it's the weakening of the Source... or...”

“Or what?”

“Or just  _ me _ , being screwed to another level by …” then he whispered, “...drudanae.”

“So you are finally aware of it."

"I always was. But it's my business."

"... you must stop.”

Ifan shrugged. “As if it matters. We have no more time, anyway.”

Lysanthir raised an eyebrow. “Are you not believing in Saheila's powers?”

Ifan scoffed and opened the door to sit on his bed. Lysanthir followed him, remaining in front of him, the height difference was now more pronounced. 

“I'm sorry, but truth be told? No. Dozens of thousands, against some hundreds? And I’m being generous, adding the Guardian’s numbers too… It’s just... Unless every one of you is a Divine... I don't think we have a chance.”

Lysanthir took a moment. He sat beside Ifan and smiled. “Believe in me. I'm full of surprises. You'll see.” Lysanthir tried to touch Ifan's cheek but stopped. “If you think these are our last nights, would you like to share one with me?”

Ifan frowned. “But... you honoured Sandor. You saw... a lot.”

“I know. And I'm not asking anything else but a single night.”

Ifan shook his head. “I've told you already. In another time of my life, maybe. But not now.”

“Do you fear my tongue so much?”

Ifan smiled. “You licked already. The good, the bad, the all.”

“Then what?”

“Because it would never be fair to you.”

Lysanthir raised his eyebrows. All those years that they had shared between playful jokes and friendly teasing had been more than just innocent games. Lysanthir had always exposed his bare feelings to Ifan, letting them go out of his system, believing that — unrequited — they had nowhere to go. However, Ifan had collected them and cared for them, putting them in a safe place. He had been working all this time to keep that place well delimited, to make the feelings no more hurtful of what they had to be — considering they were not at the same page— but at the same time without throwing them on the ground and despising them.

Every word that Lysanthir had said, Ifan had kept it in that place, safe. Thinking about it, it was not a surprise. Raised by elves, Ifan always understood that the amount of emotions that Lysanthir would put in a single night of stress relief would hurt him more than relax him. Elves were not fond of casual encounters, their long lives shaped their perspectives about love and sex quite different to the humans'. They didn't need to live in the present and rush into experiences. They always could wait for centuries for something they wanted to happen. And even though Lysanthir had grown up among humans — and his rush was always related to his human relatives' lifespan — he was not free of his elven nature.

Smiling, softened face in tender surprise, Lysanthir hugged Ifan. “I wish I could have met you earlier. Much more earlier in your life.”

Ifan chuckled and patted Lysanthir's back. “You would have to compete with Nueleth then. Hard adversary.”

Both of them laughed softly, enjoying the remembrance of that elven Paladin that had been so admired and loved by both. 

“I don't know,” Lysanthir stood up and walked to the door, “I would have convinced her to share you with me, believe me. I have a gifted eloquence.” Both of them smiled for the last time. “Good night, Ifan. Rest well, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me”

“Good night, my good friend. And thank you for saving my life today.”

Before finally leaving, Lysanthir peeked through the almost closed door, “No need... thanks to you. For caring.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

Finally, the day had come. The last meeting with Saheila had brought more questions than certainties, and the plan, as vague as her speech usually was, had left everyone deeply worried about the success of this battle.

It was a moonless night, and the dawn was awaited by everyone, impatiently. The Guardians were in the bailey, checking their shields and swords, testing their crossbows, warming up and trying to relax as much as possible during the previous hours of the imminent battle.

Making sure that everyone was holding their fears properly — he knew how tortuous these previous hours could be — Ifan calmly walked among the soldiers and elven warriors, sharing friendly pats and encouraging words, until his eyes lay on a long line of silent monks. He approached them, frowning in horror.

“What the fuck are they doing... wearing armour? With weapons? For the fallen... did Gareth accept this shit in the end?”

Tarquin approached him from behind, with the little box of command in one hand, charging it with his flickering Source. “Oh, trust in this. It's for the best. With my guidance, they will be incredibly useful.”

Seconds later, Saheila appeared at the Keep's entrance, sensing her surroundings in horror as she walked toward the line of silent monks. 

“What are you doing?” Saheila's loud voice caught everyone's attention. She touched a silent monk and screamed, ordering to free them. Ifan could only sigh in disappointment while Tarquin tried to convince her of this cruel decision. Only thanks to Lysanthir's explanation, she stopped arguing, even though she was far from being convinced of using them. They had a second heated conversation when Gareth appeared; it seemed that Tarquin had taken his own decisions without asking anyone in the line of command. Ifan was not surprised.

Ifan did not want to be part of that conversation since he was completely on Saheila's side. If it were for him, all those monks would be dead by now, free of their painful existence. 

He observed the long line once again, repulsed. In a second appreciation, he saw someone sat on the ground, behind that straight formation of silent monks. He walked around to reach that figure, and twitched his mouth when he saw Gregorio, sitting against some crates, wearing the same armour that the rest of the silent monks. His folded white cane was pressed against his chest, and his hands and cheeks were stained with blood. Making his steps heavy, so he would not startle him, Ifan reached him and squatted in front of him. The gesture immediately drew a smile on Gregorio's face.

“Ifan.”

Ifan blinked as a half smile curved his lips, “Your sharp senses always surprise me”

“It’s your scent.”

Ifan laughed. “I know, the Keep doesn't have as many bathtubs as I would like to.”

“No, it's not that,” he chuckled. The sweet scent of drudanae was part of his natural scent already.

Ifan spotted by Gregorio's side a couple of daggers. He raised his eyebrows and his face turned grave and worried. “Are you sent to fight too?”

“I asked Tarquin, but...” He shook his head softly, “Tarquin couldn't make me useful. I started to bleed too much under his control spell. It was incredibly painful. It seems the magic I used on myself made me strongly resistant to any kind of control. And I'm blind… so fighting on my own... I wouldn't be so useful anyway.”

“Believe me, it's much better if you stay.”

Gregorio's open white eyes narrowed just a bit. “After this is over, Tarquin wants to try another fix to my eyes.” He squeezed the white cane that had been holding against his chest, “I would like you to be around when that happens, so … I can finally see your face. Can you promise me you will come back?” His voice waved a little. 

Ifan smiled, touched by it. “Sure, lad. Sure thing.” He patted Gregorio's shoulder. 

The dawn had come too late for what it was usual. The sun, weakly rising from the East, projected the Keep’s long shadow along Stormdales' sands. In the West, the main Lizard formations could be seen. 

In the outer bailey of the Keep, Gareth was giving the last instructions to his people, while Saheila, standing proud in front of her warriors, infused them courage through a long speech in elvish that with the exception of Ifan, no other human or dwarf could understand. 

“I can see it with my own eyes. The war of races approaches. The elves shall stand, and  _ they _ shall fall. They can't run, and they can't hide. They shall not see the end of us, because we shall prevail. The Wrath hidden in our cores shall awake.”

Ifan whispered close to Lysanthir, never switching to common language, “I still think this is suicide.”

“Trust in us. We are few because we were trained for this. We  _ shall _ win.” He smiled, imitating Saheila's speech playfully.

Full of mistrust, Ifan looked at him letting his worry be transparent in his eyes. “Don't lose your life. Losing good company is... makes things harder in troublesome times.”

Lysanthir looked down at Ifan's hands. They were almost still. “I'm more worried about you.” 

“Nothing to worry about. When my life is at stake, I forget anything else and I simply focus on... surviving. You know, like a trapped animal. Everything becomes sharper.” Ifan said. 

Lysanthir doubted it, knowing that, despite the honesty in Ifan's words, there were many layers of tiredness wearing his soul. It was a kind of tiredness the elf could deeply relate to. It was a tiredness as worrying as Ifan’s trembling hands, now calmed due to the effect of a morning hint.

Gareth explained the plan one last time assuring to the Guardians a victory that only elves could believe in. The defeat of the Lizards, according to Saheila's words, was needed to expose a truth which had been kept as a secret until then. She had also foreseen a danger in the skies; creatures half festered, consumed by death and Void, spreading cursed fire upon the fields. That dangerous weapon had to be eliminated on the spot. Therefore, Slane and his few recruits that could manage a stable dragon form were assigned to be the key against them. Not a small task and quite a big responsibility. 

On the ground, the main battle was going to be led by the elven vanguard, while the humans and dwarves would remain in the Keep, protecting the fighters in the open field with large range weapons and Source. This battle was not only against the Lizards, but also against the traitors, the followers of the sick Mother Tree, the lost elves of Tovah's faction. 

At the end of the speech, Saheila ordered her people not to think about them as fellows, because they would only lead them to the old ways, when they were slaves of the Mother Tree and could not even have their own thoughts. Those hard words hit Ifan.

Since childhood, he had never seen elves antagonise each other to that extent. To kill other elves was... Unthinkable. Death was always an extremely traumatic event for them, not only because the low birth rates of elven populations — especially after the  _ Deathfog _ — but also because they were creatures of extraordinary memory. Every death ended engraved in their flesh, fusing with millennia of memories that they could revive at any moment, bringing back — at least in their minds — those who had been gone forever. The older an elf became, the amount of memories of dead ones increased, blending the times when they were alive with current times. The sanity of an old elf, after dozens of millennia, always ended up affected with so much confusion and grief mixed with their bewildering perception of time. Death was always a tragedy, especially for elves and their memories. 

To think that now their leader was carelessly asking them to kill other elves made his chest hurt. Mother Melati would have been so disappointed in them. But on the other hand, elves were not immune to the changes of the world. This world was brusquely succumbing into chaos and death, tearing apart its own foundations, letting the madness of demons slip into the realm, engulfing everything into the Void. So, in order to survive, morals had to be bent; from the use of silent monks as cannon fodder, to the submissive acceptance of cruel orders like Saheila's. It was understandable. After all, they were mere children of these terrible times. 

“Stop worrying,” Lysanthir whispered close to Ifan after watching him in detail for a long while. Ifan’s facial muscles were tensed and compressed in a wince of pain. 

He sighed and rubbed his face to release the tension. “Did you get some extra vision last night?”

“I did, but it involved a bed, and you in it.” 

Ifan frowned at him, 

“Oh, it was a standard dream then? Damn.” Lysanthir chuckled.

“I can't believe you are in the mood for joking. Just right before starting a suicide mission.”

“Don't. Worry.”

“This is such a waste of life... All of you...” Ifan muttered under his own breath.

“This is not a waste. This is victory.” 

Ifan shook his head, grieving. That playful elf had been such a great friend all these years. To lose him, to add him to the long list of people he had lost so far... broke his worn heart. 

Lysanthir placed a hand on Ifan's shoulder and said, “For the Goners, Ifan,  _ believe me _ . We'll win.”

“You lost your mind, like her.” He tilted his head in Saheila’s direction, “Too much stress in these troublesome times. We are all losing our sanity.”

Lysanthir laughed. “And you were raised among us? Nevermind. Just look at us.”

The elves walked through the inner bailey and headed to the outer gateway, leaving the safety of the external walls of the Keep that had been protecting the town for so long. Meanwhile, Gareth gave the order for all the Guardians to take into defensive positions, spreading all along the battlements and towers on the top of the walls, and aiming bows and crossbows in every crenel. From those heights, they had to protect the elven vanguard while having the advantage of a visual check of Lizard troop movements. 

Another group of Guardians, smaller than the one placed on top of the walls, was going to focus on the rear side of the Keep, watching over the ocean. Arx had given them the experience to know that the Voidwoken could attack from there too. Slane and his students remained in the main bailey, awaiting the signal to defend the skies. 

From the top of the Keep walls, Ifan and Gareth observed the slow pace of the group of elves walking into the desert. Far away into the land, where the line of the desert was fused with the beginning of Arx's forest, the first rows of Lizard troops appeared. Their formation was so broad that it was hard to guess from where it began to where it ended.

“We are at the hands of an elf who lost her mind.” Gareth said and sighed, “Fifty fighters? Lizard troops are by dozens of thousands. You are aware that this will not end well for us, right?” 

Ifan hummed, squeezing his crossbow. There was nothing to say.

The small group of elves kept walking toward the Lizards, slowly, while from afar, the sound of an elven chant reached those awaiting on the walls. The song was producing a harmonic effect in their minds, relaxing them. After a moment, Saheila stopped short and turned to face the Keep. She displayed a signal made of Source. That was where she was going to stay alone, so she needed long-range protection. Ifan and the archers on the walls aimed their bows as their eyes glowed in green. They charged their arrows with Source and shot at Ifan's order. The arrows fell all around Saheila, drawing a circle of Source.

The chant stopped, and the warriors — a bit far away from Saheila — halted. They drew their weapons and waited. 

“My people, win this battle.” Saheila whispered. A whisper that everyone in Stormdale could hear from nowhere, as if she were inside their heads. “Let the elves prevail. Receive the gift I have.  _ Share _ .” 

She undid her blindfold, letting it fall on the ground and opened her blind eyes. A darkness deep into her soul — reflected in those eyes — changed into a green glow at first, then into a silver one while small tears of silver liquid ran along her cheeks. The eyes of the elves that were awaiting close to the enemy shone as well, and a brief emanation of green mist came out from them. Then, silver dense tears slowly ran along their cheeks too. Tears of pure Source, connecting everyone with each other. Tears of ancestors and elves yet to come. Tears from the past, the present, and the future. The link to all the layers of time.

At the distance, the Lizard archers were preparing their attack, most likely, laughing at the elven vanguard. A mere rain of Source arrows was everything they needed to kill them. After a second, a massive cloud of green glowing rose up to the skies and started falling on the walking elves. Unaware of the incoming death, or maybe ignoring it, the elves began to run towards the far away enemy rows.

Ifan swallowed thinking in Lysanthir. The elf had been so blindly confident in reaching the other side, alive, to kill some Lizards. Now, it was evident the stupidity of this plan, of trusting in a mystic elf, of thinking they had an ephemeral chance against those troops. Ifan closed his eyes, not wanting to see the slaughter. The arrows were almost reaching the elves. A lugubrious silence spread all over the Keep while the rest of the Guardians watched in shock. However, the lack of any reaction afterwards lasted too long. 

“What the hell is happening?” DeSelby finally said after a moment, echoing everyone's stupefaction. 

Surprised by her words, Ifan took courage to open his eyes and watch the battlefield again. All the elves were still running toward the enemy, not even a single body fell on that portion of the field massively covered with arrows. Meanwhile, Saheila, walking inside the arrow circle and chanting, kept looking at the sky, as a small pool of silver liquid spread under her feet.

The small group of elves finally reached the Lizard vanguards and clashed weapons with their soldiers. If the elves had been lucky once, avoiding the rain of arrows, they could not be twice, against the excellence of proud soldiers of the extinct House of War. Elves trained with mysticism could not be matched against the remnants of highly disciplined warriors. Without taking into account their gear. The half naked elves had even thinner chances against fully armoured Lizards. Yet, once again overcoming any expectations, the Lizard bodies started to fall, one after the other, while the elves, without a single loss, kept crossing through their defences.

The Lizard formation, which had been a dense front line, started to break and surround the elves with the intention of using brute force to smash the elven group. However, not even that formation stopped them. The circle in which the elves had been trapped, started to become bigger and bigger as the lifeless Lizards fell on the ground. Massive amount of Lizard dead bodies began to decorate the landscape. 

On the walls, every Guardian could not help but stop breathing for seconds.

DeSelby was still recovering from the apparent invulnerability of the small group of elves when, from the West, several dragons appeared in the sky. Their enormous bodies emanated a green mist as if they were  continuously  burning in Source. They opened their mouths while speeding up through the skies towards Saheila, ignoring the massacre that elves were doing in the main front of the Lizards. It was clear that their main target was her. 

As soon as the dragons were in range, they spat cursed Source over Saheila. Without delay, a protecting dome arose from the circle of arrows around her and was sustained in the distance by all the Guardian mages who still had stable Source. 

The attack of the festering dragons was not over yet when the skies cracked open, and fragments of the Void were seen between the fractures. Flying Voidwoken roared as they passed through them and tried, once more, to attack Saheila. 

Out of the blue, a beam of Source exploded in the sky, giving the signal. More than ten massive dragons rose over the Keep. Slane and his few recruits finally joined the battle, defending Saheila from the air attack and from the Voidwoken, giving to the archers in the Keep the chance to focus on the Lizard dragons. Charging arrows with Source, in combination with lightning shocks and fireballs, the Guardians controlled the assault. 

Three of the Lizard dragons fell from the sky, rolling over the desert while their skin dissolved like ash. Their skeletons remained alive, as their Source eyes kept flaming, revealing their Undead nature. Everyone in the Keep was shocked with the revelation that the Lizards had been using undead creatures as weapons. 

Without second thoughts, Saheila drained those creatures' Source, consuming them. The rest of the Lizard dragons, wounded or killed by the storm of arrows and magic from the Guardians, turned back into elves and fell from the skies. It seemed that the Tovah's elves had managed to learn how to shift but required the power of those three undead dragons.

Astonished, everyone in the Keep observed the battle landscape that, slowly, was showing an obvious result. The Guardians were  _ winning _ . After an hour, the remaining Lizard troops retreated, weakened now due to the massive loss of their ground army and the complete annihilation of their air fleet. 

Hesitant, Gareth took more time that it was needed to give the signal of victory, after which Saheila stopped her erratic walk inside the circle, and fell on the silver liquid pool. After her fall, the group of elves that were walking back to the Keep fell halfway as well. 

“What the hell?” DeSelby said while she kept an eye on the group. 

Ifan threw his crossbow and ran down the wall to reach Saheila. Scared, he activated his spirit vision for a moment, breathing in relief to see her spirit was nowhere to be found. She still had it in her body. However, the battlefield, now full of Lizard souls, showed a different scenario. 

They were dragged from afar, screaming for help as a strong force pulled them down into the earth, consuming them. He did not think much about it, and as fast as he reached Saheila, he knelt beside her and tried to lift her from the ground. She opened her eyes for a second, exhausted and confused, giving him a small glimpse of the massive understanding of the world. 

He saw into those dark eyes all the endings he could have had. Hanged in a tree, slit wrists. Tortured in a dungeon. Opened wide in an experiment table. Drowned after a shipwreck. Consumed by a demon. Eaten alive by a swarm of Voidwoken. Stabbed in the back by a friend. Thousands of different endings, in which he died, alone, betrayed, suffering to the point to break his sanity. The vision was only cut off when the image of a silent monk looked at him with those dead white eyes unfocused, and then, that sewed mouth was opened, ripping apart all its skin as a viper eye came out from the mouth, bleeding profusely. 

Saheila closed her eyes. “Please, look for them. They are alive. Exhausted, but alive.” Saheila said with a thread of voice and passed out. 

“What was that?” 

Ifan shook his head and blinked, forcing him to focus on this timeline. Ignoring the deep shock that those images caused him, he ordered immediately to recover all the passed out elves in the battlefield. He lifted Saheila in his arms, and looked around, still shocked. Tovah's elves, undead dragons, and thousands of lizard lifeless bodies spread all over the desert. Not even their souls had been spared, being completely drained by something under the ground. 

That devastated landscape was not a consequence of  _ Deathfog _ , but it displayed the same magnitude. 

He looked at Saheila in his arms, her cheeks wet by that silver liquid. Only then Ifan could understand why she had been the first one in asking them to destroy the Mother Tree. Elves had more power than they wanted to show. To know that they had been slaves of a corrupt entity that could have used this power at any moment, made him shiver. 

* * *

Ifan knocked on the door and entered. He smiled at Lysanthir, who was still in bed, reading a book. His scholarly roots were always hard to completely repress. 

“Ah, I have the luxury of being visited by the great  _ 'this-is-a-waste-of-life'  _ commander, no less. My expectations are getting higher.”

Ifan chuckled and patted the elf's shoulder while sitting on a stool beside the bed. “I'm glad you are in a good mood. I thought you were dead when you all fell. Just in the end.”

Lysanthir smiled with his typical wicked gesture, “Putting down half of the Lizard Royal army is not an easy task. Let me get tired, you know?” His words made Ifan chuckle. “How is Saheila?”

“She is still resting. She has been sleeping all day.”

“Yes. It's good. She needs to recover.” The elf closed the book on his lap and moved up in the bed to have a more straightened position. However, he stopped short and violently grabbed the blankets as he bent on himself. The world spun too quickly in a second. “Wow. I hate this side-effect. You become a useless thing for weeks.”

Ifan frowned. “Can I help somehow?”

“Yes. Some smooches?”

Ifan hit Lysanthir's forehead with a finger, gently. Then, he simply rubbed the elf's long back in a circle. “So... you did this before?” 

“A couple of times. Hard times. Centuries ago if you want me to be precise.”

“Is Saheila so old?”

“No. But her power is.”

Ifan frowned, taking his time to complete each circle. Once he finished, he sat on the stool again, “I get that you know what all that was about, right? Care to explain? You all looked invulnerable.”

Lysanthir looked around, watching that nobody could hear him, so in whispers and elvish language, he answered, “Saheila has been gifted with the  _ Vision _ . She can see past, present, and future in the same moment, all the time. It's a maddening gift. Many Scions had it time ago, but they usually succumbed to it. She is powerful, she can control it, she can endure it. And she found a way to share it with some elves. As a fighter, with the Vision, you can see all the immediate possibilities of an attack. Every mistake that the enemy will make. Every false move you can do. So you can exploit it. And at that moment you can decide what to do and see its outcome immediately. You can even change it if it is not what you wanted. So you're stuck in a permanent visual cycle of endless possible situations and outcomes that never stops. The battle in that state requires a lot of focus. And endurance, because it’s madness. Your mind can't resist for too long that constant overlap of time and possibilities. It exhausts you. Especially if we are fighting physically too. I suppose we indulge ourselves in an uncontrollable madness, that thankfully, Saheila can help us to get out of it.”

Ifan's eyebrows shot up, “Every elf can... do this?”

“Every elf  _ properly _ trained. Otherwise...” He lifted a finger to his temple and made a couple of circles, “She trains you to endure this madness longer and longer. But it's not something I like to recommend to anyone. I fear that, one day, she wouldn't be able to pull us out of it.”

Ifan whistled. What a destructive power they had, even worse than Source itself. 

“So, what's the situation now?” Lysanthir said. 

“No casualties on our side.  _ Unbelievable _ . Some of your group are more exhausted than others. You are the first one in awakening.”

The elf scoffed with a half smile, “Of course, I'm the most experienced.” He said after making a wink at Ifan.

“The Lizards had a really big loss. Some Guardians were injured later, when the Lizard retreated and small groups of Voidwoken kept fighting us. Nothing serious, though. The silent monks eliminated any remaining Voidwoken.”

Lysanthir looked up at the ceiling, a sigh of tiredness came out from his lips. “Good news, it is. We were lacking of them, lately.” Then, he turned to observe Ifan, a gentle smile on his face. His eyes fell along Ifan's arms to his hands, now trembling considerably.

Ifan lifted his hand and with two fingers extended, he pointed to his face. “My eyes are up here.” 

Both chuckled for a moment. When they stopped, Lysanthir observed Ifan's face in detail, and frowned. Inviting him to get closer, he rubbed  Ifan's lips  with his bark finger, as a strange line was on them. 

“You have dirt here. But… it’s stuck?” Lysanthir said.

Ifan shrugged, “Maybe I bit my lip. Too much tension today.”

* * *

With the end of the battle and their astounding victory, the atmosphere in the Keep irradiated good cheer. Screams of joy and laughter could be heard close to the kitchen, and the scent of beer filled the corridors of the stone building.

After visiting Lysanthir, Ifan went to the council room. He needed to talk with Gareth in order to plan the next steps to take. There was no time for them to rest. The unpredictability of Voidwoken and the weakening of the Veil were always pushing them forward. When he got closer to the room, without stepping in, he heard Tarquin's voice.

“Well, that's all I have to say. I can't heal them. I’ve tried, using every means at my disposal, as you must know, and I only could heal the unfinished ones. And I'm still in the middle of a work-in-process with the blind one. But the rest... their process has been completed. They are lost, there is nothing for me to do but this. Better use them now. You saw a glimpse of their power in this last battle, containing the Voidwoken. They can deal with them too easily.”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that. Who gave you the order to complete the leashes on them?. When were you going to tell us about that? Why didn't you do it before the battle?” Gareth’s voice came louder.

“What? And feed your doubt about their use in a more advantageous way than simply killing them off? Perish the thought.”

“Tarquin! I feel so sick of just thinking of them as a discardable resource.” Gareth said, his voice lower, struggling with the idea. 

Ifan entered the room without rush, closing the door behind him. He took a seat beside Gareth and saw Tarquin in front of him.

“You had been working on silent monks behind our backs… I imagine you did more than leashing them. What do you know about  _ that problem _ of our Source? Something else you didn’t say before that you want to add now?” Gareth asked Tarquin not without hesitating under the presence of Ifan. 

“Oh, that remains the same. Nothing clear yet.”

“I need to know if we all are going to end up like those silent monks once our Source is completely consumed.” Gareth insisted.

Ifan frowned. “What?”

Tarquin tapped the table, looking aside, nervous. He was going to let the High General speak. 

So Gareth folded his hands, resting his weight on his elbows. “There is an issue that you haven't been aware of. A couple of months ago, one of our soldiers became a silent monk.”

“That's ridiculous... unless,” Ifan darted his most threatening look to Tarquin, who nervously and  frantically shook his head as he raised his hands, showing his palms to Ifan.

“No. It was not Tarquin.” Gareth’s voice calmed Ifan’s rage, “Nyw told us that one of his patients turned into a silent monk in front of him, time ago, while he was healing him. We thought...”

“That's stupid. You know Nyw was a Lone Wolf working for someone who contracted him. How can we trust his words?” Ifan said looking at Tarquin. Gareth lowered his eyes, shamefully. 

That ordeal had been informed immediately after they dealt with it, without much to say. Everyone was deeply shocked; to know that Nyw was the spy they had been struggling to spot made them rise their mistrust. However, since Lysanthir eradicated that danger, the problem was forgotten by the majority of the people. One less worry to think about, only a sad shadow of a twisted memory remained in Ifan’s soul.

“To think he had been healing us for years.” Tarquin added with a cynical smile on his face.

“Yes. He was... Quite the spy. In front of our noses.” Ifan said, enduring the strange goosebumps spreading along his body with the sound of that name.

Tilting his head, Tarquin looked up for a moment, “Despite his actions, and any potential lie, the event remains the same. We got a silent monk turned out of nowhere. I, myself, saw the patient before and after the transformation, reporting a serious loss of Source days before his change. So, it’s safe for us to keep on speculating that, maybe, the end of the process… leads to that result.”

“Bullshit. For fuck's sake. Sanguinia died but that bloody idea still lives?” Ifan sighed, “Anyway, that's impossible. Sandor always said that there were no chances to end like that; you need to be under an aggressive process of transformation. A purge. For all we know, Aywyn... this Damned Nyw, I mean, could have a purging wand and made up all that story. As he always did.”

Tarquin raised an eyebrow, “Well, what Sandor said, it was years ago. He was not aware of the research I’ve done recently,” Tarquin smirked. “And despite any potential lie from Nyw, I strongly suspect that there is a possibility for us to end up like silent monks.”

Ifan scoffed, “How? Does it simply happen?”

“I said that I cannot neither confirm nor refute the hypothesis. I need further research. There are new ways to craft silent monks, as we could confirm it time ago, when we only thought worms were the only means to do so. Why not think that we don't know everything? According to Infirma's last research, everyone of us is being drained slowly by a network of monoliths spread all over Rivellon.”

Ifan frowned, scratching his chin. The movement put in evidence his trembling hand, so he hid it behind his arm resting on the table. “So it was that. During the battle, I saw the spirits of the dead Lizards being dragged down into the ground.”

“That confirms what Infirma has said. Monoliths may absorb Source from anyone, in any state, and seem to send it down into the earth. We don't know why.”

Ifan rolled his eyes.  _ Scholars. _ Never a straight fucking answer, only suppositions. “So, we are all being purged, slowly.”

“Exactly. A really bad news.”

Ifan scoffed, “You must be thrilled, more toys for you to control later.”

Tarquin raised an eyebrow and took a moment to answer, “As a post-Divinity Sourcerer, I'm also at risk of that fate, my friend.” Then, he smirked, hiding his annoyance for such inconsiderate comment. 

“And you don't mind ending up like a puppet?”

“What's the difference with right now? We are always being controlled by something, or someone, or some circumstances. It's not a new state for any of us. Or what? Do you think we have no leashes around our necks?”

Ifan hit the table with one fist, glaring at the scholar while Gareth pressed the cridge of his nose. “For fuck's sake, Tarquin, you fucking know it isn't the same, in the slightest. Keep your philosophical shit to yourself.”

Tarquin sighed, “So what. What do you want me to say? I can't stop the process. We only can think about its consequences some steps ahead. Do you prefer being killed once you become one? Or you prefer being used to saving as many as we can? Is it not what you are doing anyway?” 

Ifan frowned, while Gareth looked at Tarquin, warning him with his gesture to be careful with his words.

However, the man continued ignoring the message. “Don't pretend that nobody has been noticing your hands, or your reckless behaviour, or your stench of that  _ certain  _ herb, lately. I'm the one who is burning his own Source to heal you. You are not fit to fight, yet, here you are.  _ Until you break _ . Tell me that's different from a silent monk used to fight to the very end?”

Nervous, Ifan scratched his beard and looked aside for a moment, “So, this is it? We are going to use them? Always? Until they're slaughtered?”

“They are going to die anyway. We only can choose the way: mercifully or usefully?” Gareth said,hating himself for his own words. “I don't like it either. But in desperate times, desperate measures are needed. Malady would have decided this so easily.”

“This is how it starts.” Ifan hit his index finger on the table surface, repeatedly, “This is how the Magisters ended up being as fucked up as the Order, as Lucian, as all-”

“We are going to send them to Arx.” Gareth spat out, hands folded on the table, his eyes locked in Ifan’s.

Ifan stopped short and kept the visual contact as his frown deepened slowly. Then, he rubbed his face, hiding his trembling hand a moment later. “What for? It's not like we can return there. And it’s suicidal to fight a settled swarm.”

“No, but there are resources. The underground is full of powder and weapons, and the academy's objects. There are healing supplies in the clinic, too. We can't abandon all that there. Especially when we have no more safe trade roads now.” Gareth stood up and walked to the biggest table in the room, observing the map of Rivellon and the figures placed on it. “We need to evacuate the last civilians from this town as soon as possible, the Fortress must be full of Guardians and warriors only, and await Malady and Arhu; let's see if they were lucky with their mission.”

“Ugh. I hate waiting.” Ifan said. “Do we have more intel about the Lizards?”

“Not much. Slane flew over the troops and saw their commander,  _ The Red King.  _ We confirmed that much.”

Ifan laughed. What an irony. It was a pity that the bastard Lizard he had met in Fort Joy could not survive to see how he had never been meant to be a prophecy. Just a mockery. “Let me guess, from The House of War?”

“The heraldry they used during the battle was not...”

Ifan frowned. “But I saw the Ancient Imperial flag and-”

“You did, but the insignia that accompanied the Imperial flag was not from The House of War, nor from The House of Shadows, as we could suspect in the shadiest case. So this confirms our intel too, their Houses were destroyed.” Gareth explained.

“What was it, then?”

“A black shield with a skull on it.”

“The House of Pirates?” Tarquin said, making both men chuckle a little bit. 

“We will investigate. For now...” Gareth patted Ifan's shoulder. “...you need not to worry about it and rest, my friend. These last days have been....tough ones.”

* * *

Returning to his room, Ifan passed by several silent monks along the corridor. They were standing beside their former rooms which now were used by the exhausted elven soldiers. Probably they had been ordered to inform any recovered elf, working as they had been doing in Arx before the big fall. Ifan sighed, feeling the repulsion kicking his guts. 

He wanted to look aside and forget about them, as he had always done with many things in his life. As he had done for years, with Roost and his disgusting hobby of torturing orphans. 

Sometimes Ifan wanted to return to that attitude so proper of his Lone Wolf side. He had been so good at ignoring terrible things that were not his business, but on the other hand, he had left that past self behind, and had promised Sandor not to be that man never again. That was, of course, only an excuse. Ifan truly wanted not to be that shady version of himself, for his  _ own _ sake. However, it was hard to remain fair to himself. Especially with his brand new self in times like these, when nothing mattered anymore, and Sandor's memories barely helped him to survive another day more.

_ Survivability vs morality. Who cares? _

He sighed while walking, lost in his thoughts. These terrible times would have been so much more bearable if only Sandor could be there with him. 

From some meters away, Ifan could see a man sitting on the floor, beside his room door. It was Gregorio, shoulders hunched and all his body bended to be as small as he could, hugging a bag and covering his face with a hood. He was sitting on some folded blankets. Ifan squatted beside him, observing those open wide eyes that looked at the nothingness.

“Ifan.” His cracked uneven voice broke the silence of the corridor. 

“Yes?”

“I've heard the fight is over. Is it?”

“It is.”

Gregorio sighed. “Are you okay? Are you wounded?”

Ifan smiled. “I'm okay, lad. Still no room for you?”

Gregorio hunched his shoulders even more, hugging his bag. “The elves returned more than exhausted. They are still using our... the silent monks' rooms. Tarquin offered a stretcher in his studio... But...”

“So, do you want to share the room with me?”

His lips curved in a shy smile and he nodded. “A lot. Your bed is so warm,” Gregorio pressed his lips, ashamed as soon as he dropped the words. “If you don’t mind…”

A bit uncomfortable for the comment, Ifan stood on his feet, cleared his throat and invited him to pass. It was good that the man was blind, so he could not see that intense blush that suddenly had coloured Ifan's cheeks. 

As usual, Ifan took a refreshing bath and went straight into the bed. He still could feel the tension in his body. His hand, trembling intensely, was proof that his abstinence had reached its daily limit. Unable to get rid of the obsessive desire for a hint, Ifan looked at the small bedside table, full of garbage piled up one over the other, and searched through the mess to find a small box. It contained the strongest leaves of drudanae that could be found in those days. He rolled a leaf with a scrap of paper and looked at his side. Gregorio was already in, covered up to his mouth with blankets.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

The muffled answer took a moment to be heard. “It's your room.”

Ifan set the leaf alight and took a long deep puff, feeling the effect almost immediately. His mind quieted, goosebumps spread all over his skin, and his muscles, one by one, started to relax. Soon, that feeling would reach his hands and make them stop trembling. Now he was more fit to sleep.

“Are you okay?” Gregorio whispered. 

“Now, much better.” Ifan said, finishing the cigarette. Then he blew the candle on the bedside table, and got deeper into the bed. Arms behind his head, he looked at the ceiling. The hint was starting to mess with his perception, as the moonlight coming through the small windows gave the place a more purple colour and a more intense feeling of coldness than they usually had. It was an obscene atmosphere of loneliness.

Gregorio moved a bit inside the bed and purred. Ifan's lonely appreciations were interrupted by that sound, that somehow, seemed like a moan to him, making him feel unease, melancholic even. A new wave of goosebumps shook his body, and a shy annoyance raised from his belly. He was starting to feel hot and feverish. It was going to be one of those nights… one of those in which his body was desperate for meaningful and emotional physical contact. He sighed.

By the way the bed dipped, he assumed Gregorio had buried his face in the pillow and got a bit closer to him. Damn it.

“Everything okay?” Ifan said. 

“Yes. I... I simply keep enjoying the feeling... of sleeping in a bed as if it were new. This scent. The mattress. The blankets. But this warmth. This warmth is so familiar.”

“That's a clue, right?”

“Yes. A lot of things feel familiar here.” Gregorio whispered and rubbed his face against the pillow. “Tarquin... He told me he went once under this spell I cast on myself. He said that the way to reveal the keys is to chase after the sense of familiarity." He swallowed, his wrecked voice trying to sound soft, "That... That I need to keep on going...  _ further  _ when I feel it. Like...” He stopped short. 

“Mn? Like what?” Ifan ran his hand — now steady — along his hair. The movement gave him a chill, feeling all his senses sharper and overstimulated as time passed by and the drudanae kicked him in harder. Damn it that he was not alone in that bed.

“Like now.”

Confused, Ifan moved his head to see the man. Gregorio was laid on his side and covered up to his chin. The moonlight was reflected on his white hair and open white eyes, giving him an ephemeral glow, as if that man were a mythical creature, and something divine was emanating from his skin.  _ Hell _ , that drudanae hit him too hard. 

Whatever it was the cause, the scene looked like a painting of a lost spirit, seeking shelter in a warm bed of a wrecked man. He remembered that lost soul of an elven woman looking for his child, near a campfire, years ago in Driftwood, when they were still chasing after Alexandar. It was, almost, like that. What was Gregorio looking for in the fire?

“Are you watching me?”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to stare.” Ifan said, looking again at the ceiling. He always forgot how good Gregorio was at perceiving the direction of a person's breathing. “You say further. I imagine that's why you came back to my room instead of accepting Tarquin’s offer, right?” 

“I guess. Though a stretcher is not so tempting.” 

Gregorio moved closer. The sensual sound of the movement of blankets gave to the purple colour of the room a sudden level of intimacy that Ifan resented for a fraction of a second. He remembered that time in the Lady Vengeance, wrapping Sandor with his arms, and a blanket over them. His flesh was yearning, feverish. Or it was yet another intense sensation fed by the drudanae?

“You  _ guess _ .” Ifan's words had an intimidating effect on Gregorio who stopped moving completely. “Speak out your mind. I can't read your thoughts.” 

“Tarquin said that such familiarity can be probably found in common things. Objects or... situations. And... I've been doing a lot of common actions by now, like eating, or listening, or despite my eyes, moving a pencil on a paper to simulate writing... just in case those things would make me approach the keys. But.. It was a Bed.. Beds are too familiar to me.”

“Well, to everyone. We sleep in them.”

“Not in such a general way.” 

“Mn,” Ifan thanked the darkness and Gregorio's blindness once again as he blushed fiercely, and the fire became intense in his guts. He knew exactly where all that was going, and he was not sure if he kept encouraging it or simply denying it. Was it the drudanae?

Gregorio continued. “The familiarity increased when... like now. And.. I've been suspecting... Since the moment you shared this bed with me… And you said  _ that  _ about elven skin... I think... Maybe, this thing that everyone does, that nobody would do with me because... well, I'm a monster... maybe that could give me some insight.”

Ifan raised his eyebrows, “Are you asking me to have sex with you?”

Gregorio swallowed. “Um... quite blunt. But...Yes.”

Ifan chuckled, his cheeks and guts in fire. “Why  would your key be  _ that _ ? I didn't know you before.”

“If you think carefully... maybe it makes sense?” Gregorio wrapped the blankets tightly around his neck. “If I'm a mage, I'm a scholar... and those people are loners. Maybe the key is something I never had. Or it's something that became compulsory for me. That's another possibility.” He wrinkled his nose, “I don't like that option much, but... I don't know who I am. The familiarity is not always good to me. I feel it mixed... like a big cold shadow on a warm, pleasant day. Maybe... maybe the experience can... uncover those doubts? I don't know. Nothing is clear. It scares me, and I would like to explore  _ that. _ .. with you. If you allow me.”

“With  _ me _ ? Why? Why me?”

“Because I'm scared. And so far, the only person who has been gentle to me since I couldn't talk, was you. You don't see me as if I were a monster. If this is something that will hurt me, I want to do it with the only more familiar thing I have in this world, which is you. I know I should not put such responsibility in an almost... stranger... but... uhm... I have nothing, Ifan. I have no one.” Gregorio swallowed loudly and rubbed his eyes as unexpected tears fell along his cheeks.

Ifan moved his head to see that man's face under the moonlight. He felt deeply touched by that sentiment of loneliness. He had been there for a long time, before meeting Sandor. Now he was there again, drowning in that feeling every day.

He looked at the ceiling. “I was not exactly  _ kind _ the first time I talked to you.”

Gregorio chuckled. “Well, but you were later. The candy. The pats, the warmth in the hugs. Who would hug a deformed creature like me? You held me a lot of times when I was... when the pain was too much.”

Ifan sighed loudly. “I appreciate the trust you put in me... but.. we talk a lot. You know I can't. Sandor is always in my mind. That's not-”

“That's why the scroll.”

Silent short, Ifan snapped his head to those unfocused eyes. 

“I just need the experience. You don't need it. So I thought about what I could give you in return. And this spell came to my mind. The chameleon-like. Under it, you will hear, and touch, and see the person you want to. What do you think? To see Sandor again? To hear him instead of this wrecked voice? You will not feel this horrible skin, but his.”

“Don't say bullshit.” Ifan's voice strangled. 

“It is not. It is a spell that alters your perception. It uses the memory of your Source engraved in your flesh to project it on the present. Do you want to check it now?”

“Use it on you. You are the one who has to explore his memories.”

“It wouldn’t work on me.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been… severely… purged. I don’t know why, but my flesh has no memory. Tarquin said it’s the spell I cast on myself, which protected most of my Source from the purge, but… I don’t know. I feel empty. And besides… I don’t have sight. How am I supposed to see the projections otherwise?… So… those scrolls are useless to me. But you… you could use them. You would enjoy a moment while it could help me to remember something else.”

Ifan sat on the bed immediately, scared and at the same time, tempted by the suggestion. The fever he had been controlling so far, was set free now, making him feel extremely uncomfortable as he noted his groin was a bit hard. His breathing became heavier. The thought of seeing Sandor once again gave him goosebumps, and his throat turned dry. He was hungry;a starved predator at the sight of a weak prey. "Have you planned this from the start?"

Ignoring his question, Gregorio sat and looked for his bag resting at the side of the bed. He took one single scroll of the three that Ifan had helped him to craft, and gave it to him. Hesitant, Ifan took it and saw its Source symbols on it. He could not decide whether his hand was trembling due to emotion, desperation, or the drudanae effect had, suddenly, worn out. 

“Under this spell, your words will still be yours? Or are they going to be twisted by my perception too?” Ifan said, his voice tinged with worry.

“They will be mine. In  _ his  _ voice. If you want me to say something that makes the situation more real... just tell me.”

Both, sitting on the bed, remained silent for a moment. 

That scroll in front of him meant now the only possibility to get what it had been taken from his dreams, what drudanae never gave him: the fantasy of a real Sandor. With  _ this _ , he would be able to touch him, and hug him, and kiss him.  _ Again. _ The temptation was dire. He put the scroll on his lap and rubbed his face; the arousal fever had worsened. 

“Hell...” Ifan whispered.

“Are you okay?”

“ _ No! _ I'm  _ not! _ ” Ifan said in a harsh tone, breathing heavily, “You bring to me this fucked up illusion... and I... I don't know what to do with it.”

“Do you want to see Sandor again? This is the only way you can do it. It won't be real-”

“I fucking know! And that's why... I hate it. I  _ want _ this. But not as an illusion.”

“Nothing is perfect. We both are going to take something useful from this, but it won't be real for you, and it won't guarantee my memories to me. It has its risks. But... is it not worth trying?” 

Ifan scoffed breathily, “Are you a demon?”

Gregorio sighed, understanding the sudden doubt. “Maybe, I can't remember, but for sure, not one from Nemesis.”

Ifan scratched his beard. Then he fidgeted his necklaces, nervously. “What if I lose my mind with this?”

Gregorio shrugged, silently. Nothing could be guaranteed. It was going to be a hell of a gamble for both.

After a long sigh, Ifan fell on the mattress and closed his eyes. He took the scroll and pressed it against his chest, activating it. He waited full of fear. 

“I forgot to tell you that it will last three hours.”

Ifan  violently opened his eyes at the sound of Sandor's voice. Perfect, clean, with that exact tone of sadness that it used to keep at the end of his sentences. Despite the penumbra and the purple tone spreading in the room, he looked at the man by his side and could see every detail. Dark short hair with grey strands on that fringe, smooth fawn skin, and  _ his wide open brown eyes watching nowhere _ . It was Sandor.  _ Almost _ .

“For the Fallen... Sandor.” Ifan whispered with a quivering tone.

Sandor smiled, his eyes moving from one side to the other, emulating a sight that was not there. 

Ifan hugged him strongly, squeezing him, kissing his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, his temples. It was like a lost dog finding his family again, unable to control all the gestures to display his immense momentary happiness. Ifan could also smell that warm home-made bread scent that Sandor's skin used to have. He drew back a bit and caressed that man's cheeks, knowing this was not Sandor  _ truly.  _ But he did not mind believing this lie as long as it brought to his body that warmth and sense of shelter that had been lost a long time ago.

Hesitant, Ifan leant on him and kissed those lips. What started gently, full of doubts, grew intensely as the taste kept reminding him of Sandor. And there it was, the effect in his stomach, that one he thought he would never feel again. His inside twitching, the butterflies tickles, the effervescence of intense bubbles spreading all over his body, the safety of finding a place where to stop, the joy of a deep link engraved in the soul. He was still so marked by that man.

He could not hold it back. He did not want to. He stripped Sandor of his bed clothes and observed his body laying on the mattress. His arms and hands, burnt with old Source wounds, had that particular soft texture on them; the three star-like scars on his chest and the big scar on his belly were there too. Every mark, mole or scar was there, where it had to be; including the marriage mark on his left pectoral. The moonlight was enough to see those dark stripes burnt on his skin, the elven love mark shaped into three claws. As soon as Ifan's fingertips touched it, Sandor hissed in pain.

Ifan froze. For a fraction of a second it felt  _ so real. _ Then, he remembered Gregorio's terrible skin condition. Maybe he had pressed where the damaged skin was worse. Still trying to keep the illusion, Ifan approached him and kissed him for a long moment, sliding down to reach his neck.

As soft moans escaped from his partner's lips, Ifan continued his work with his tongue, kissing and licking that body while caressing his ribs and thighs. He lowered to reach Sandor's hips while sneaking his whole body between the man's legs. Ifan sucked the pronounced corner of the hip, where the bone stood out too much for being truly Sandor. In fact all that body, despite having the same proportions felt incredibly bony for being Sandor. But Ifan did not care. Not now at least. 

He went down and took Sandor's hard sex in his mouth, all at once. The soft, struggling sounds coming from Sandor's lips, and his hands pulling Ifan's hair as a reflection of the sensations caused by his tongue, made Ifan turn on intensely. He was feeling the overwhelming need of getting rid of all those years of desperate physical longing.

“Stop, stop.” Sandor said. 

Panting, swallowing a bit, Ifan released Sandor's sex and rested his body weight on his elbows, raising his eyes from between his legs. “Sorry. Too much?”

With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, Sandor shook his head and moved his fingers as an invitation to lay on him. Ifan frowned. He had been avoiding to put all his body weight on him, but  _ of course _ , that precaution was not needed anymore. He was not  _ truly _ Sandor. 

So Ifan climbed that body while Sandor, playfully, removed Ifan's clothes, leaving only the bandage of his still wounded arm and shoulder. Cautious, Ifan released his weight on that bony body, who accepted him with long moans and delighted trembles. Although his body weight was giving Sandor some troubles to breathe, Ifan attacked his mouth mercilessly. He pressed his heavy hips against Sandor’s forcing his legs to spread and let the contact of their groins become deeper. 

They rubbed their naked sexes -- trapped between their abdomens -- starting to build up extra pleasure. With each deep friction, Sandor pulled Ifan's hair with a hand, while the other kept marking the intensity of the moment on his scarred back. 

To increase the pressure of their frottage, Ifan took Sandor's thighs, kissed his neck while placing all his weight on his chest, and pulled Sando's legs by the sides of his waist. Sandor groaned as Ifan's fingers dug in his thighs.

Sandor's legs hooked Ifan's waist. The friction of the skin, the bites in their necks, the heavy kisses in their jaws, their devoured lips; everything was adding up to the increase of moans and needy whimpers while their bodies kept repeating a movement that pushed them to go deeper. Their feverish bodies wanted to go deeper. 

Without exchanging words — their panting made it impossible — Ifan dipped his arms under Sandor's waist and lifted it, placing some pillows under it. Sandor's legs, spread eagerly, rested by the sides of Ifan's hips. 

Extending a hand, Sandor removed a bottle from that bag where he had put the other scrolls, and gave it to Ifan who raised his eyebrows in surprise. Gregorio certainly had been thinking about this for a long, long time. 

When Ifan opened the bottle, its oily texture made its nature obvious. Thirsty, while his animal side was completely taken by the heat of the moment, Ifan spread the oil on his own sex and Sandor's entrance and with a fast movement, he penetrated that fake body all at once. Sandor gasped, a half moan half whimper escaped from his trembling lips as his legs suddenly compressed around Ifan's waist, his spine arched, and his hands nailed in the blankets.

Sandor did not have time to recover from the discomfort when Ifan started to move slowly but constantly, grunting and moaning in an agonising pace that made Sandor shiver, contracting and relaxing his muscles. He still was looking for a position of comfort. 

The gentle movement became rougher with the seconds. Close to the end, ready for the most selfish and most violent thrusts, Ifan dropped all his body weight on Sandor. He snuck his arms under Sandor’s shoulder blades and grabbed them tightly, anchoring his own body and locking the man under him in that place. There was no room for escape. Groaning and hearing the obscene sounds that sweaty bodies do during sex, Ifan set free his raw greedy desire with frantic thrusts.

The more Sandor repeated his name in whimpers close to his ear, the more Ifan wanted to follow this lie, without thinking that the man under him was Gregorio. He could not think in the incoherence of having Sandor under him, enjoying this. Any sense of logic had been drown in the middle of his lusty mind, too focused on a rough, angry sex. He just needed to get rid of that heat, of that longing that had nowhere to be channelled. The next day was going to be another day, but for that moment, sinking himself in that body had to be enough.

Ifan pressed even more against that bony man trapped between his body and the mattress. Frustrated at the edge of such a fast climax, Ifan grunted. He grabbed Sandor’s nape to have a better grip, and moved quicker and quicker, aggressive in a way he had never been conscious before. Inside that squeezed tight embrace, bright cracks of Source appeared on his skin, sparkling as the climax approached. Their hair were wet and sticky on their temples and napes, and a smell of salt and sex raised in the room too intense.

Sandor’s drown little cries were a mixture of chokes and moans perfectly synchronised with the thrusts. Enjoying the intense treatment, he squeezed that man over him with arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his back, facilitating the pounding to hit that inner spot. His pleasure had been wildly escalating under the extra struggle for breathing. Between the suffocation, the absolute submission under that weight, and the intensity of the thrusts that kept rubbing his sex trapped between their stomachs; the penetration, raw, deep, and desperate was enough to make him come suddenly.

“Sandy, Sandy.”

Ifan cried out, as the last, violent thrust triggered Sandor's pleasure too, whimpering and squeezing him. After that animal intensity, they remained still for a few seconds, in the same position that pleasure had found them. Their breathing were hard to recover to their normal rhythm, especially for Sandor. His chest could not expand under Ifan's heavy body.

Moving his waist with no rush, Ifan carefully pulled his sex out from Sandor. The bony man made a sound of complaint or discomfort, or maybe frustration for the end of something so intense. Ifan rolled on the bed and lay on his side, letting the man to finally breathe normally. He observed that profile once again, craving for the man to look at him, to smile at him, to cup his face and caress his cheeks with his thumbs as Sandor always used to do after sex. But none of that was going to happen. Those open wide eyes were not going to look for him, they simply were stuck on the ceiling, watching the nothingness. 

The truth, until that moment not completely acknowledged in its real magnitude, or maybe overlooked due to the rush of lust, broke something in Ifan's chest. All the vulnerability he had been holding back for years, all his desperate needs for that man to hug him and kiss him like Sandor used to do, all his playful desires of nuzzling in his neck, all his emotions that Sandor loved from him, overflowed him on that bed. He could not contain them anymore. He looked at the ceiling too, inhaling. Maybe it was the drudanae or his naturally messed up mind, but that clear scent of home-made bread put a knot in his throat, while he kept blinking to swallow his tears. He needed Sandor in every corner of his mind and body, every fibre of him whispered his name. He desperately wanted this charade not to be a lie. But he knew… it was impossible. So he insisted on it. It was better to have this malformed dream than nothing. 

Angry with his childish and dichotomous desires, furious for having accepted something that was so incomplete but still yet he did not want to stop, he sat on the bed and reached out Sandor’s face to kiss him. A long deep kiss, trying to drown in his own flesh this maddening emptiness, his fears, his longings. The kiss tickled his inside wildly.

Gregorio under Sandor’s skin, eager with the experiment, responded to Ifan’s intense touch. The kiss tasted so familiar that he was almost certain that it could bring the memories of the past hidden in his own rotten flesh. He insisted on nipping his lips and swirling their tongues, exploring each other's mouth. The truth was close, Gregorio could feel it.

However, they had to stop after a moment in order to breathe. Their bodies, awakening slowly into lust once again, were asking for another rush of pleasure, maybe in a calmer fashion; maybe in a tender way.

“Take me.” Ifan whispered in Sandor's ear, his voice a little strangled. Truth or lie, it did not matter. He wanted to feel Sandor as he had done before. 

Sandor smiled, even though that cheer did not reach those expressionless eyes. He lifted from the mattress, and touching around before moving, he found his way between Ifan's legs. Eager, Sandor placed some pillows under Ifan's waist but somehow, all that rush, disappointed Ifan. 

Ifan observed him in every detail, passive. That obviously blind man took his time to reach his bedside table, grab the oil bottle, and spread its content on his hands. Then, he started to massage his own sex with a hand, while fingering Ifan’s entrance with the other, just enough to spread the oil. The movement had been so mechanical, so uninterested. It was… so… selfish, that disgusted Ifan.

The short gasps coming from Ifan due to the rough touch of his finger drew a smirk on Sandor’s face, oblivious to the level of frustration that Ifan was displaying. Ifan could not blame him, could he? Those brown eyes were so empty.

Taking position, Sandor tried to make his way in, but Ifan recoiled, sitting in the bed and gently pushing Sandor's chest. Ifan hated those open unfocused eyes that kept breaking the illusion he wanted to hold.

“You know... I like some foreplay.” Ifan said, releasing a frustrated sigh.

There was  _ that  _ too. Sandor would have never gone so damn straight to it. Ifan frowned, hating himself for a brief moment when his consciousness made him wonder if all that situation was a mistake.

“Oh. I-- I-- I'm sorry. My bad.”

Hesitant, Sandor moved aside, closed Ifan's legs, and sat on his groin, straddling. It was not an original idea, but it was a good way out from the uncomfortable situation that Ifan had put him into. He placed most of his weight on Ifan’s sex, so he could build up some tension. Forgetting the charade, Ifan smiled as some memories of Sandor sitting in that same position on him came to his mind. Nostalgic, he extended his arms and caressed those thighs. He tried not to notice how long and bony they were.

_ For the Fallen, if only this could be more than an illusion. _

Sandor leant on and kissed him, while his hands sprayed over Ifan’s chest, scratching his nipples and dragging delightful soft moans from the man under him. Leaving his lips, Sandor kissed his ear, pulling softly his earlobe with his teeth. He even played with the earring for a while, teeth and wet tongue while his fingers kept sensually torturing Ifan’s nipples. When he thought it was enough, Sandor avoided Ifan’s beard and buried his face in his neck, licking and biting every inch with the silent promise of leaving dark marks the following day. Ifan started to moan loudly. 

Following a trail of pecks, Sandor lowered to Ifan's healthy shoulder while sliding his own hands along his ribs to reach his hands, entangling their fingers. He bit for a moment that shoulder and licked the long collarbone, sucking at some points to truly leave a mark of purple love bite and teeth marks all over his body. Ifan chuckled. He always enjoyed the idea of being marked despite such a thing was so out of Sandor’s personality. 

With gentle guidance, Sandor raised Ifan's arms over his head and bit the border of the armpit, close to the pectoral, licking his way down to Ifan's nipples once more. Ifan moaned, deep and low this time. Sandor kept swirling his tongue around an already tired and very sensitive nipple, while his fingers slid in circles around the other. Ifan could not help but shiver under the extra sensations provided by the drudanae, running still in his veins. Sometimes, just to add more pleasure, Sandor dipped his hip against the mattress, increasing the pressure of their groins.

With a heavy breath and his body burning in that particular lusty fever, Ifan became more aware of how much he needed this. Not only the satisfaction of the flesh, but also the little comfort he could find in intimate kindness, in lustful caresses that snatched agonising moans out from him, in sensual hugs and skin contact, in soft dominance while feeling a delightful weight on him. He certainly was convinced to believe that all these gestures were coming from Sandor as long as he would avoid watching those cursed eyes.

“Turn over.” Sandor whispered in his ear before dipping the tip of his tongue there, softly putting it in and out in a gross simulation of what was going to come.

Ifan's breathing stopped, disgusted by such vulgar gesture proper of a brothel, but at the same time, aroused by that wet obscene tongue. The suggestion had hit him unprepared, finding it highly fascinating.

Slowly, while Sandor lifted his own body to facilitate the movement, Ifan turned over and laid on his stomach down. Sandor's hard sex fell on his lower spine, sliding down to his arse cheeks, teasing him with a lazy rub. 

The mere attempt of simply pushing it in, sped up Ifan's breath as well as his desires. He started to move his hip against Sandor's, encouraging him. Then, out of the blue, he felt it sliding into him, in a clean movement that filled him completely. 

A gasp, followed by a low grave moan while his legs spread a little, was all that Ifan could do. The feeling of being trapped between that man and the mattress, made him enjoy twice that kind of submission, of hopeless acceptance that increased his sense of vulnerability. His mind was slowly shifting to that dangerous side of his past self, when he would accept anything from his partner. He used to like that position before, because it required an enormous amount of trust in his partner in order to make the experience into something delightful. He loved that. That blind trust that was more tangible than ever in that defenceless position. Oh, he had been craving this forgotten feeling for years. Deep tender trust with raw obscene lust.

When the first sparks of consciousness started to appear and made him realise in what kind of situation he was in, Ifan pushed his hips up and groaned, as the movement spread violent goosebumps all over his skin. He did not want to remember that this man penetrating him was not  _ truly _ Sandor. He wanted to believe in that lie for a little bit longer. 

Noticing that Ifan was keen on going rough, Sandor bent over him, placing part of his weight on Ifan's back. He moved Ifan's long hair aside, exposing his nape, and kissed and sucked that spot, leaving a deep bite before heading to Ifan's ear. He bit his earlobe again, licking the recently made marks that were peering by the border of his neck, slowly and sensually. And while he tried to maintain Ifan's focus on the bites, he moved his hips back and forth.

“Sandy.” Ifan whispered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the feeling. He liked to feel Sandor's scent around him, and his skin against his, his kisses on his shoulder blades, and his sex deep inside him, but not to see his eyes. Not those  _ fake _ eyes. Not those eyes that kept reminding him that  _ this man was not Sandor _ . 

That agonising movement relaxed Ifan, drowning him in moans. Sandor kissed his scarred back, following a trail of pecks and bites along his unscratched shoulder to his shoulder blades, never hesitating at the rough texture of the twisted skin all over there. 

The deeper Sandor pushed in each movement, the more Ifan spread his legs, letting him go farther. The shivering, the relaxation of Ifan's hands, resting on the mattress, squeezing the blankets sometimes, the feeling that Sandor was reaching him deeply inside, not just emotionally but now physically, in combination with the still present effects of the drudanae, catapulted Ifan to another level of pleasure clouding his mind. He needed that more than anything: a blank mind to believe in anything at that moment. His moans became louder and turned into long sustained whimpers that could only be stopped by each movement out.

“Harder, faster...”

Taking a better position on the bed, Sandor grabbed Ifan's waist with his light hands, and increased the rhythm. The smooth sliding turned into thrusts that kept hitting that delightful spot inside Ifan, while the impulse of the whole movement made the bed hit against the wall. 

“Sandy...”

Sandor took Ifan's hands and placed them behind his scarred back. There was neither force nor aggression in the movement, but it was enough for Ifan to become more vocal as his sensation of being defenceless increased his libidinous fever. He loved that. To be reduced under his partner and let it flow. To simply be done and undone in whatever fashion his partner wanted. He could not ask for anything better; a tender dominant Sandor.

“Sandy, Sandy”

But it was a  _ lie _ . The thoughts kept infiltrating into his oversensitive mind, coming and going as another wave of pleasure hit him and made him forget everything else. Their bodies sped up as a preamble of something more intense yet to come. 

Yes. That body size, that scent, that skin. Everything was a lie. An incredible  _ realistic  _ lie. But a lie he needed right there. A wonderful lie that could have been true if the world were not a living hell. A lie that his tired mind and body needed to keep in order to maintain that man alive in his own flesh. It did not matter the cost. It did not matter that it would transform his nostalgia into an endless nightmare. It was preferred over oblivion, because humans were meant to forget, and yet, his  _ Dhaleram _ condition made him fight against that fate every tortuous day.

“Sandy, Sandy.”

He needed this lie, as he needed that man, because in his confused mind, everything was about maintaining his memory, honouring him, feeling him still alive despite the reality. And then, abruptly, as a whim desperately pushing to be satisfied, Ifan felt that such a position was not enough for all of that. He needed  _ more. _ He needed to see those brown sad eyes and his smile before reaching the highest point of pleasure. 

“Wait, wait.” He said, between moans. Sandor stopped, a sigh of frustration escaped from his lips, and waited for instructions.“Let me turn over.” 

Releasing his wrists, Sandor pulled his sex out, allowing Ifan to turn over while helping him to place some pillows under his hip. His spread legs embraced Sandor as soon as he felt the penetration again and the rhythm returned to a lower intensity. 

Ifan pulled Sandor closer, craving for his lips, but he sighed in frustration when the man only could reach his collarbone. Ifan had almost forgotten what a nuance their height difference was for this position. Feeling his way along the bed, Ifan caught some more pillows that were placed under his shoulders and neck, in order to curve his torso and to approach Sandor's face.

He closed his eyes — denying those that were not looking at him — and left his mind blank as he kissed him, needy. While the thrusts continued, he wrapped Sandor's neck with his arms and pulled him more and more, resting their foreheads together and sharing their hot breaths as the pleasure peak became closer. Convinced that maybe drudanae could help him to imagine those sad brown eyes alive, Ifan opened his own and looked at the man he loved so much. Between moans and soft cries and enduring the frantic movement that were speeding them both to the climax, Ifan saw those  _ unfocused _ brown eyes. Those sad eyes that were  _ not _ looking for him. Again, and again. Why was drudanae not doing the trick? Why? At least, at the very end.

None of that was true. Nothing. No matter how much effort he would put to believe it so.

He came at the same time that Sandor did. But Ifan did not get the pure raw satisfaction that got during their first round, nor the emotional one that he had been craving for years. Instead, a knot appeared in his throat, out of the blue, and strangled his voice. His eyes burnt, as the heat of the moment passed by and his mind started to become clear again. He felt that light body resting on his, still inside him. 

Ifan frowned, disgusted, remembering that he had forgotten to tell that man to come outside. Now he felt dirty. Deeply dirty. He sighed, resigned. Well, it was not Gregorio's fault. After all, he had done the same to him a moment ago.

Out of mercy, or simply trying to keep the fake moment a little longer, Ifan caressed Sandor's hair while looking at the small windows in the top of the room. The purple moonlight rays, beautifully delineated in the penumbra, crossed the room making it feel cooler. He looked at that man resting on his chest, and swallowing his sobs, he let his tears run down silently, as he embraced him.  _ It was a lie. A lie. A mere lie that he desperately wanted to be true.  _

And while the moonlight kept filling the room with that lonely colour, a piercing cold ran along his soul guiding Ifan into his sleep. 

In the morning, Gregorio woke up in an empty bed. 

* * *

Waking up alone in the bed was not something he would have expected coming from Ifan. He thought the man would be one of those persons who would enjoy cuddling in the morning, waiting for their partner to wake up in order to kiss them and be the first good thing happening in their day. Maybe Gregorio had poured too many expectations into that broken man. Or maybe, the man had seen the bare truth in the morning and, horrified by that monster sleeping by his side, he simply fled, regretting everything that had happened the previous night.

Gregorio turned over, still inside the bed, and dragged the blankets to his nose. They had an intense smell of sweat, sex, and drudanae. The smell seemed to scratch some blurry memories, but they were unable to fully reach his consciousness. He was right. There were memories right there, close, in a bed, in the middle of the sex, not completely forgotten. They were built on fear, desire, and rejection. It was such a confusing amount of sensations. He sighed, frustrated.

He remained in that bed, enjoying its softness while remembering the previous night. It was impossible to ignore the dichotomy of emotions that had arisen in his body. He had felt good and bad at the same time. The raw pleasure he had enjoyed was out of question, but he could perceive that there were moments when his body violently rejected it. He wondered why, sneaking a hand between his legs.

Flesh had always been confusing for him; living in his own body was a permanently confusing experience, especially in the darkness of his eyes. If he could craft mental images in a more self-restricted environment and recall the sensations of the previous night, maybe, just maybe, he could make things less confusing. Certainly, remembering Ifan's warm heavy body on him was enough to turn on a delightful fever and spread it all over his body. 

Without Ifan in that bed, he had to resign to use his own hand while his mind reconstructed an unlikely image of the man he had never seen before. The fresh memory of his hands along that lean and muscular body turn him thirsty. With the exception of deep and highly textured scars here and there, Ifan seemed to be a handsome sensual man. 

Gregorio brought the thousands of faces that had popped up in his mind when he touched Ifan's face for the first time, and tried to pick one expecting to match it with that body. He completed the mental picture with the still echoing moans reverberating in his mind. He truly wanted to repeat that night. And so he did. In the only way he could at that moment. 

Gregorio came after a moment. But he could not feel anything like the previous night. There was no familiarity at all in his own hand, despite the sex, the scents, the pleasure, the mental images. Flesh was indeed confusing. 

He got up, removed the sheets, and took a bath before leaving Ifan's room. 

He went to the kitchen where the good cheer was still easy to perceive in the voice of excited soldiers having their breakfasts. He took a piece of bread and a cup of hot tea in a corner of the big room, in a far away table, alone. His face was lowered and his ears sharpened, trying to listen all over the place in order to identify Ifan's voice somewhere. But sadly, the man was not there. Due to the amount of voices present there, he could conclude that only dwarven and humans were around; the elves were probably still resting from the exhaustion of the battle. 

Once he finished his tea, Gregorio made his way up to the battlement. If Ifan was not training or doing some urgent mission, that was the right place to find him. As soon as he reached the upper part of the stairs, a strong smell of drudanae filled his nostrils. Yes, Ifan was there. 

He sat on the bench, his cane resting against his shoulder, and lowered his face. The sound of the friction of Ifan's clothes with each puff was clear to him. 

“Ifan, are you here?” He asked as a mere formality. 

Sitting in a crenel, Ifan observed the man. He took several puffs in silence and looked up at the clouds. The gentle breeze and the cold blue in the sky had cleared his head. But he still wanted to avoid the whole situation of facing the consequences of his lust rush.

He was not accustomed to it. One-night stand was not what satisfied him, especially not with a friend. It was dangerous and messy. He had avoided making this very mistake with Lysanthir so far, why did he end up doing it with this poor man? Maybe because, deep down, he did not care much about him. Well, it was true that the silent monk was not exactly a friend. More like an acquaintance. And the chance to see Sandor alive once again, even if it were a lie, was too much of a great temptation to resist.

He swallowed, guilt burning his chest as memories of the beautiful and funny nights with Sandor made him feel worse with what had just happened. Ifan sighed. He was not like this. He had never sneakily abandoned a bed, leaving his lover behind. Not without giving a good morning. Never the first shared night. There was no more suitable gesture to say to someone that they had been used and discarded; a sentiment that Ifan had felt in his own skin many times. A sentiment he deeply hated to offer, especially to someone so vulnerable like Gregorio.

_ More mistakes to add to his long list.  _

Truth be told, Ifan regretted everything. His actions in the morning, his rush in the night, his help in crafting those cursed scrolls; in short, the whole situation.  _ Damn fucking scroll _ . Not to excuse his own mistakes, but it had also been too much for him to awake with an emaciated silent monk by his side, especially when the echoes of the previous night with  _ Sandor  _ were still fresh in his body.

_ This had been a terrible mistake.  _

“I'm sorry for this morning. I...I...” Ifan finally said.

“Are you okay?” Gregorio interrupted his words with a gentle tone. As gentle as his wrecked even voice allowed him to have.

Ifan smiled after that surprising kindness. Now he felt worse. “It doesn't matter. Are you? Did I.. hurt you? I was... carried away... a bit.”

Gregorio shook his head slowly. “I'm fine.”

“Good.... I… I don't want to remember much of last night...To be honest.”

The silence was filled with a cold breeze. After taking courage, Gregorio spoke, “Oh, so we cannot repeat last night, can we?”

Ifan's chuckle was unnatural, forced, sarcastic. “You truly enjoyed it.”

Gregorio sighed, releasing tension “I.. I'm not sure if  _ enjoy _ is the correct expression.” His words made Ifan frown, “It was as if I could recover some memories at that moment... but, no. It's like when you have a rare word in the tip of your tongue. It tastes bad, it makes you feel uneasy, but you need to insist on it... so I... I think I need to be there, more times.”

Ifan rubbed his face then he chuckled, sour. “Can't you stop fooling yourself? I don't know how it looks to you... but for me... If my memory were wiped out, and I feel familiarity with a person in a bed, and fucking him keeps doing that... I don't know about you, lad, but that rings the hell of a bell to me, meaning that you have a partner out there. Maybe even a family. Maybe waiting for you. Why would you like to fool around with ... someone else?” Ifan's voice broke at the end.

“I don't think that's my case, Ifan.”

“How do you know?”

“I only know. Many layers down under my lost memories.”

Ifan scoffed. “At least you still have hope in finding your partner alive.” He finally spat. Jealousy burning his chest, impossible to hide.

“I'm sorry, Ifan.” Gregorio lowered his head and moved his white cane against the other shoulder, “I know you yearn for Sandor. Do you want to talk about him?”

“There is nothing to say. He is dead. I buried him close to Arx, a city that had fallen by Voidwoken. Now, I don't even have a grave where to pray for his soul. Same as...” He stopped short, as the image of Nueleth filled his mind. He looked down for a moment, fidgeting the ring in his necklace. “Nevermind.” He shook his head. “It doesn't matter now. I lost him. This is all I have from him now.” He took the amulet in his neck and extended it to Gregorio who touched it, feeling something familiar in it. It was Source. The amulet had such a colossal amount of Source that even his crippled purged body could perceive. Gregorio was a bit angry, and deeply jealous of that dead man. So much intensity he had imprinted on Ifan’s life. 

“I'm sorry Ifan... I thought... I thought it was going to be good for you.” 

“If I were you, if my partner were alive, out there, I would be more careful. I would not be fooling around with a bitter man like me. Truth be told, I fucking envy your position. ”

“Bitter, uh?” Gregorio smiled, “I envy Sandor.”

“He is  _ dead. _ ” Ifan's tone was louder and rawer than he intended it to be, “Nothing to envy of his situation.”

“Still... look at the intensity he left in you. It's like... your  _ source _ of living energy.”

Ifan rubbed his eyes as tears fell. Of course he was. Since he had found Sandor's disfigured corpse in the forest, his soul had been deadly hurt. He had been agonising since then, trying to find again some light that could bring warm sunbeams into his grey existence.

Out of the blue, Aywyn's voice reverberated in his mind, repeating once more the tragic tale of how Ifan had failed Sandor, abandoning him in the middle of the forest while the wizard kept screaming his name in despair, slowly consumed by the  _ Deathfog _ . That image, whether it was true or not, deepened his remorse.

He sat on the floor, his back against the crenel, and smoked a bit more, as tears ran freely. Of course that night had been a bomb to his fragile mind state. 

“I won't lie, I'm… That was too much.” Ifan cleared his throat, “I’m broken. No point in hiding it. Everyone knows it. You know... to think of him, to  _ see _ him, while we were... together last night. Your body size, your movements, your scent; they made me forget the spell sometimes and... I felt him: after all this time yearning for him, I  _ felt  _ him as if he truly were there, with me, taking me. And then, when I was falling asleep, I tried to remember our first time and the emotions in it and... they were hard to reach. The memory was not as intense or real as last night. But last night was a lie, an illusion of Sandor, not the real one. So, the blending of this with my  _ real _ ... memories, the loss… It freaked me out. I can't allow that... I don't think I can do that again. The illusion of him... alive... overshadowing my memories of the  _ real _ one... I can't. I need to honour him, I can’t risk losing his memories too. It’s the last thing I can do, after abandoning him...”

Unable to hold it any longer, Ifan burst into tears, crying as he felt Sandor’s absence deeply. Ashamed, Gregorio approached him and knelt on the floor to hug him, letting him release all that sadness. Ifan's face nuzzled his neck while squeezing that fragile bony body.

“I'm  _ so _ sorry for that. I didn't think... it would affect you so much. I'm  _ so sorry, _ Ifan. Forgive me.” Gregorio whispered. 

Ifan hid his head even more against Gregorio and sunk his fingers on his back. Sex had never been a mere entertainment for him. He thought that maybe it could be now, for one night, in times when the world was falling apart. But it was impossible. He simply was that way, unable to separate it from emotions and memories. Forcing himself to it would always be a mistake.

After a long moment, Ifan sniffed, patting the man's back to break the hug. Before speaking, Ifan wiped out his last tears and cleared his throat, “When my first wife died, it was hard to bear it. But I could. We both were soldiers, after all. But then, Lucian and the  _ Deathfog _ turned her absence more hard to deal with. From that moment on, I did stupid things. I ended up in a … really... bad situation. Got trapped in a vicious  _ thing _ with a wicked man in a group of infamous mercenaries. I wanted to clean my pain with more pain.” He stopped for a moment, and a bitter smile curved his lips, “Bad habits die hard. I don't want to walk the same path. I don’t want to find myself trapped in something that only makes me feel bad. I can't. I won't resist it this time.”

Gregorio squeezed his shoulder, his eyes open wide, his sight lost at some point on the floor, “I understand. And I'm so sorry for having asked you that selfish request.”

“We both were selfish.” Ifan said. 

Gregorio hugged him again, and Ifan did not put up any resistance. 

With a muffled voice, Ifan whispered, “Just destroy the remaining scrolls. Destroy them, please. They will always be a temptation.”

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Tears of Source and ** ** _The Gift_ ** [Headcanon]: I know this must go too beyond the lore, but it was born as the combination of many canon details: First, it was inferred in-game that Saheila can see all the futures at the same time, this is why she knows everything about everyone. This gift would produce madness in any normal elf. On the other side, we had the Prince of the House of Shadows, who claimed that elves were dangerous, and not just because the Mother Tree was corrupted. So combining both concepts, I tried to craft a more consistent reason why Lizards were so adamant against elves, that could also explain Saheila’s weird speech at the end of the game (related to imperialist elves). So I liked the idea of some natural skill in elves, proper of their own beings, that could be misused in a way that made Lizards fear. And that’s how I came up with the concept of  _ The Gift _ . 

Saheila is the only elf of her generation who had the  _ Gift  _ of seeing all futures [canon] and also the ability of sharing it with others, maintaining them sane [headcanon]. This feat would require a previous training, in order to endure the whole power of the  _ Gift _ . Of course, such a  _ Gift  _ had to be related to Source, since everything in Divinity Original Sin games is about Source. 

We know, canonically speaking, that Source has been the origin of life (DOS1) and worlds, and it is also an element that all living creatures have, humanoid or animal alike. Even the undead ones have it, which is essentially what gives them their “living” nature even though they are dead. So, Source is related to the world, to its origin, and to every single creature living/unliving in those worlds. It’s the link of everything with everything, so certainly it has to be the means to make  _ The Gift  _ functional. Source cannot be destroyed, only transformed, and it carries all the experiences of all the creatures of the world of all times, so it can also carry “all the potential futures” as well. So, Saheila, as Source Master as well, is just using this power that inherently Source has but only special elves can use. 

And I liked the symbol of tears as a way to imply that elves are deeply connected through the pain of the world and the pain in all living creatures (also carried by the universal Source), because if there is something universal, it is the pain. 

And this is the power that the Lizards always feared. In wrong hands,  _ The Gift  _ would allow the conquering of the world too easily.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story. Thank you.  
Also, any comment about how you are feeling the direction of the story would be welcomed. I'm deeply curious about it.

DeSelby was shaking her head, while Lysanthir, furious as he never was seen before, aggressively pushed Ifan. Wounded and soaked in blood, Ifan looked aside, tightly holding a staff in his hands. Lysanthir's weak shove had not moved him an inch; the elf was still dealing with the consequences of Saheila's Gift. However, ignoring the  dizziness , the elf hit Ifan's chest again, exactly where the Voidwoken's fang had pierced it. Ifan yelped, as blood dripped on the ground.

“Stop being this reckless, you are our Commander!” Lysanthir yelled at him, resenting his weakness which had prevented him from joining the daily missions. He had to remain resting into the Keep with the other elves.

A week after the Lizards' retreat, and with the last group of citizens evacuated to Driftwood, the Guardians could finally focus on recovering the resources left in Arx. The flying machine was used everyday, taking Guardians into Arx in the morning and returning late at night with a cargo and some wounded soldiers. It was a fast way to travel despite risking to be a huge target, too easy to spot and attack. But so far, the operation was going smoothly. It seemed that the most dangerous Voidwoken had abandoned the city, and only small ones that took care of the thousands of eggs placed all over the rubble, were all the dangers they had to face.

That day, when the mission was almost finished and the moon was the only source of light over the city, Ifan could not avoid the temptation to go to the academy ruins and look for Sandor's staff. That monument had probably been corrupted by Voidwoken ichor and their eggs, but the thought of recovering that object had been stuck in his mind since the day Gareth told him about this mission. Well, truth be told, it had been Sandor's robes what had been stuck in his mind first. They had Sandor's scent. But the wizard's house had been completely destroyed, reduced to rubble when in his fight against the swarm, Ifan consumed all its protective Source shield. Now, he could only aspire to get that staff. It was an object that was going to represent the grave he could not visit anymore.

He sneaked away from the main route of the mission and headed to the Academy. The swarm of caregiver Voidwoken was thicker in that part of the city but he dismissed any potential danger coming from them . After all, they were weak and their only purpose was to nurture the eggs and keep them spread all over the place. 

As he had expected, the monument was covered with them, impossible to guess its shape beneath all that ichor, drool, and dough. Only at the top of that apparent hill of disgusting fluids a soft glow could be identified as the extreme of Sandor’s staff. Without second thoughts, he began to clear the monument. The fuss caught the attention of many caregiver Voidwoken which slowly started to surround him.

Their feeble crawling bodies approached him, but without waiting to see their lame attacks, Ifan got rid of them with a bash of his shield. The creatures screamed, retreating some meters away, observing him while clicking their saw-like mandibles. Ignoring the unnerving sound, he gave them his back and kept cleaning the monument.

The clicking became a rhythmic squeak followed by a strange hollow sound. Ifan looked at them for a moment, curious about that behaviour, but as long as they could keep the distance, he did not mind their musical sense. There was nothing to fear; those Voidwoken were meant to take care of the eggs, not to fight an enemy.

After destroying the last eggs on the base of the monument, he broke the thin cement columns around the staff and finally retrieved his dearest object. It was a stupid action, he knew. But for some childish reason, he needed that staff. He wanted to make a replica of this monument in the Keep, and leave something tangible of that wizard in this world. Something that everyone could see and touch, something that could encourage people to listen to the tales of the amazing things he did in his life. Something that would say that he had been more than a mere creature who only was born, suffered, and died. Something that would last even after the destruction of this world.

Lost in the contemplation of the soft glowing top of the staff, Ifan did not notice an enormous stealthy deep-dweller emerging from the ground. The creature attacked him, taking him off-guard. It pierced Ifan's chest and part of his still wounded shoulder. He screamed without releasing the staff. 

As loyal as ever, despite the flickering Source of his master, Afrit appeared  out of nowhere . Without hesitation, the spectral wolf leaped at the creature and ripped off its head, falling on the ground with less balance than usual. He approached his master, whimpering. His paws trembled a bit, as a symptom of the general weakening  of the  Source, and licked his master's forehead just to  disappear afterwards. 

On the ground, Ifan tried to get up and return to the ship but he could not move. He could not even breathe —  probably one of his lungs had been pierced too —  and the blood spreading under his body gave him a clue that this was more serious of what he wanted to believe. However, always stuck by that wicked luck of his, one of the Guardians spotted him in the distance and ran to his help, bashing all the crippled Voidwoken at his wake. Burning his flickering Source, the soldier stopped immediately the blood loss, and healed his lung, but could not close the wounds at a muscular level. With his help, they returned to the flying machine and left Arx. Once again, he had survived by the skin of his teeth. 

That night, helping to boost the morale beyond what the victory with the Lizards had done by its own, Lysanthir —  usually resting in his room —  had managed to get up and organise a good night of tasty meals and booze for all the Guardians —  the exhausted elves warriors included —  planning to share that moment with Ifan. But instead of finding a tired soldier gratified with the success of a mission that had been taken several days to accomplish, he found  him soaked in blood, pale, wounded, grabbing a staff he recognised immediately. It was obvious the stupidity that man had committed. The same man that had been telling him not to waste his life in a battle, had almost got killed for the sake of a cursed staff. Lysanthir was deeply angry. 

“ It was a moment of distraction. ” Ifan excused himself.

“ Distraction? ” Lysanthir looked at the staff and frowned.  “ Retrieving that thing was not part of the mission. You aren’t fooling anyone. ” Lysanthir said, switching to elvish so the conversation became more private despite the presence of other Guardians,  “ Do you think nobody knows? That you... look like wanting to kill yourself. Why can't you deal with  _ that _ better? We need you, Ifan! ”

“ I didn't do it on purpose. ” Ifan answered in elvish too, still calm. 

“ Lie to yourself, if you want, but it's clear to me. Your hands can't use a sword. Can't hold a shield. You are always  at risk . Instead of getting recovered properly, you keep on doing everything that endangers you. Do you think the Mestre, if he were alive, would approve this behaviour of yours? ”

Ifan's nostrils flared.  “ What do you know? ”

“ Enough to say it. Ifan, can't you see it? You almost got killed for  his stupid staff. ”

Ifan's facial muscles tensed,  “ It's not stupid. Am I not allowed to mourn? ”

“ This is self-destruction, not mourning. ”

Ifan glared at him, his voice became louder. Everyone around them got tense, unable to understand what they were talking about,  “And to whom I have to speak to be granted permission for mourning? What kind of list do I have to check to be allowed to mourn?”

Lysanthir sighed, annoyed, rubbing his forehead while enduring the dizziness.  “ Don't be like that. You know what I mean. ”

“ No, I don't. ”

Leaving a trail of small drops of blood, Ifan walked away, heading to Tarquin's studio in order to get some healing. Frustrated, Lysanthir looked at the ceiling, and almost fell against the wall, unbalanced. The world kept violently spinning around him no matter what important fight he was having.

“ Are you okay? ” DeSelby helped him, taking his arm and sliding it around her neck,  “ What  was that ? ”

“ He is just being a brat. Damn humans. ” Lysanthir said, now in common tongue. 

With a twitch of his mouth in a signal of annoyance, Gareth gave the last orders to store all the gathered resources, and dismissed the soldiers of any duty until the next day. They could not afford to waste that good night that Lysanthir had prepared for everyone, after all. 

* * *

The night of cheer with tasty meat and some light beers started hours later. Every elf, human, and dwarf was present in the big dining room, with the exception of Ifan. Worried, thinking that maybe he had been too hard on him, Lysanthir went to Ifan's room. He was  not a stranger to loss, and despite his attitude towards Ifan, he understood him well. Exactly for that reason he was mad at him. Mourning in unhealthy ways was absolutely destructive. 

He  knocked on the door and waited for a moment, but received no answer. With the worst thoughts crossing his mind, Lysanthir entered without expecting an invitation. The moonlight rays coming from the small top windows illuminated well enough the room to distinguish a figure in the bed. 

“ Are you okay? ” He said,  “ I'm sorry if... ”

The figure lifted, sitting on the bed. A long white hair fell at the sides of that emaciated face, and moved his head to the door where the last sound had come.

Lysanthir frowned.  “ You aren't Ifan. ”

“ No. ”

Lysanthir blinked, confused. He looked at the corridor once more, and then at the door itself. Maybe his dizziness had made him end up in this silent monk's room instead of Ifan's. 

“ This is Ifan's room. Right? ”

Gregorio took a moment to answer.  “ Yes. ”

“ What are  _ you _ doing here? ”

“ Sleeping. ”

Lysanthir sighed, skimming the small room. He immediately spotted at a corner, resting against the wall, that damned staff, glowing softly. “Look, I'm not in the best mood. Everything is spinning, and Ifan has been an asshole.”

“What did he do?”

“He almost got killed.”

“ What? ”

“ He didn't come here? ”

“ He took a bath and left. He didn't say where. Maybe he is... in the highest battlement of the Keep. He likes that spot. ”

“ I know. But he is not there, I've already told someone to check it. ” Lysanthir sighed and rested his back against the door frame to give him more balance. The tenser he became, the worse the spinning was.  “ Damn it. ”

“ Was he wounded? ” Gregorio asked. 

“ Yes. Badly. Didn't he tell you? ”

“ We... haven ’ t been speaking lately. ”

“ Uh? You sleep in his bed and he doesn't speak to you? Well, he has been weird this last week. More than usual, but that... ”

Gregorio moved his head, taking a moment to derail. “ How was he wounded? ”

“In a mission in Arx. We were recovering some resources left there. But he went to... retrieve Sandor's staff in the old academy. It was outside the safe planned route to browse the city. And a Voidwoken pierced his chest.”

With a soft gasp, Gregorio put a hand on his mouth.

“ He lost a lot of blood. I thought he would be... resting here. ” Lysanthir continued.

“ This is my fault. ”

Lysanthir raised an eyebrow, but looked at Gregorio with a sarcastic smile.  “ What do you mean? ”

Gregorio kept silent for a moment. He was not sure if he had to be the one sharing that information, but he also knew Lysanthir was a good friend to Ifan. He certainly needed to know the cause of such unbalance in his commander.  “ Maybe I did something that made him more reckless. ”

“ I doubt that... but… what did you do? ”

Gregorio brought his legs covered by the blankets to his chest, and hugged them, his chin resting on his knees.  “ I've been sleeping with him since the elves came. I have no room anymore, and I couldn't sleep in the corridor, so he shared this bed with me. And.. well... things happened. ”

Lysanthir blinked as his sardonic smile faded.  “ What... the... hell... you mean? You and him? ” He scoffed. Now he was angr ier . The stupid man could fuck an abomination but did not want to share a night with him? He sighed to release the bitter surprise.  “ Woah. I-I couldn't... imagine... Ifan... well. And I tried to bed him for years, what's your secret? ” He pretended to sound funny, his wicked smile on his face despite knowing Gregorio would not see it, but the tension in his jaw could be easily perceived in his tight tone.

“ He didn't do it with me. He slept with Sandor. ”

The smile was wiped out, and Lysanthir frowned, “ What? ”

“ I crafted a scroll, a spell to make him perceive me as Sandor. ”

Lysanthir opened wide his eyes, looking at that hunched figure on the bed.  “ You did  _ wHaT _ ? Are you insane?  ”

“ I thought it was going to help him. He smokes that thing to keep memories alive, to daydream that  _ that _ stupid Sandor is with him. So... I thought he would stop smoking at least. I thought that... and... ”

Lysanthir scoffed, looking at the corridor to clear his spinning mind,  “ And you did all that out of charity. Please, I know what Tarquin recommended you to do to recover your damn memories. But couldn ’ t you choose another person? Why him? He is mourning, for fuck ’ s sake. ”

Gregorio lifted his chin and turned his face toward Lysanthir's voice.  “ Yes, I also had my own reasons... but it was not ill-intended. I thought we  were both going to take something out of it... I never meant to make him feel worse. ”

“ And after all that mess, you still kept sleeping here, with him? ”

“ I have no other place to go... ”

“ Why humans are so stupid. ” Lysanthir sighed.  “ He still didn ’ t get over with Sandor ’ s death, and you have just rubbed with salt that wound, twice … He is hurt.  ”

“ He is not the only one. We all are. ”

Lysanthir clicked his tongue and closed the door. 

* * *

Days passed by, and Ifan was nowhere to be found. Nobody had seen him since the last mission in Arx which almost got him killed. DeSelby could not help but be worried about him. Everyone had noticed that their commander had not been in his best mental state lately, but nobody wanted to openly speak about it. In those dark times, with so much death and destruction around, it was unreasonable to ask soldiers for complete balance. Mentally speaking, nobody was doing it well.

According to several patrolling Guardians, Ifan had been spotted for the last time during the evening of the last day of their mission in Arx. He had left the Keep soon after drinking some healing potions in Tarquin ’ s studio, and from that moment on, he went missing. 

Being alone out there, wounded, in these times, was not easy. The cracks in the sky could allow the passage of a swarm at any moment, and a quiet place on the coast could turn into a Voidwoken hell in a blink of an eye. There was no safe place out there, and the Keep only  guaranteed a certain degree of safety thanks to the numbers sleeping under the same roof. 

Unsure of what to do, especially due to his convalescent state, Lysanthir talked about Ifan ’ s disappearance with Saheila, who still in bed, slowly recovering from the Source ashes and the exhaustion of the battle, could not see anything beyond what her hands could reach. In a last attempt to see something else, she cupped Lysanthir's cheeks, and among the misty images that appeared in her head, she could distinguish Sebille's face. That was the only lead he was going to get from her. 

That evening, Lysanthir spent the rest of the day in the dining room, reading while waiting. That big space of the Keep where they usually had their meals was also used often for some simple tavern-like entertainment. As soon as he heard the sound of a lute, he raised his eyes from the book and followed the song direction, knowing it was going to lead him to Sebille.

In a corner of the place, a bit hidden behind folding screens, he found her, silently accompanying Lohse in her rehearsal. Among some hot cups of tea and the sound of Lohse practising her songs in the background, Lysanthir explained the situation to Sebille. She shook her head, as someone who can not believe what they have to deal with after so much time, and smiled.

“He is always the same fool. I'll find him, don't worry.”

* * *

The same day that Ifan disappeared, and after Lysanthir slammed the room door leaving him inside, Gregorio went to Tarquin ’ s studio.  For the third time he asked him to submit him under his newest treatment for recovering his sight. It was the last sense he needed to be able to chase after that  _ familiarity _ in order to awake from his amnesic state. Or at least, he believed so.

Tarquin tried his best to discourage him. The last procedure he had been working on had many contributions from Sandor’s latest — yet inconclusive — research and combined the results from those heartbreaking journals that Ifan had given to him recently. 

“It is not wise, I have to tell you. It is still under an early stage of development. And… the side-effects...” Tarquin said, caressing with his fingers the last notebooks that had fallen into his hands. Those were the journals of the genius Das Vapour, documenting every experiment on Sandor as a child.

At first Tarquin could not believe what he read, and had to ask Ifan about the accuracy of those notebooks. The grave expression he received as an answer made him understand that nothing written in them was a joke. It was obvious why Ifan had restrained himself from giving them to him for so long. Thanks to them, Tarquin  could finally have a deep understanding of the Source and how it is fixated in the flesh while the subject lives their experiences. It was an enlightening reading.

He could use this recently acquired knowledge with Gregorio and reweave his soul, from the scraps left in his tortured flesh. But before that, the recovery of his sight was essential. All his senses had to be more or less functional in order to explore the world in searching for triggers that could  wake him up. But if that process did not work, this new procedure to reconstruct his memories from his own flesh was going to be the last option he had to recover his past. Or at least, part of it.

However, the recovery of his sight was a challenge on its own. Das Vapour had developed an unconventional healing process through the endurance of more pain than a human heart could resist without failing. Tarquin had improved the method as much as he could, but guarantees of survival were… unbelievably low. He was more than convinced that Das Vapour, like him, was a terrible healer.

Despite that scenario, Gregorio accepted the treatment anyway. He was sick of living in the shadows, surrounded by a  _ familiarity _ that kept escaping from his understanding. For days he was under this new procedure that tortured him as much as the previous ones did, and left him in bed for days, hurt and bleeding, drinking only healing potions. 

When the day came, and Tarquin finally removed the bandage around Gregorio ’ s head, he could open his eyes for the first time and  _ see _ . His eyes looked cleaner; that thick cloudy layer over them was gone, and despite the iris colour had faded, his pupils were easy to distinguish. However, they were permanently constricted. This condition gave him the uneasy appearance of an aggressive predator. Everyone could notice it but nobody would say a word: those were the dreadful eyes of a Gheist.

Gregorio smiled to the edge of tears when he finally was able to put a face to Tarquin's and Infirma ’ s voices.  For the first time in his  amnesiac life, he could trace a better defined  _ familiarity _ . Those voices had acquired a new level, an extra information associated with them. He wanted desperately to do the same with Ifan, but he knew the man had been  missing for more than a week. That had to wait.

Curious and eager, Gregorio asked for a mirror, wondering if his own face would help him remember some scraps of his past. His request made Tarquin and Infirma hesitate. They looked at each other for a moment, silent, until Tarquin shrugged and finally handed him a small mirror. 

All what Gregorio saw was a monstrosity. His pale, emaciated face, the dark circles under his eyes, the grey undertone of his skin, the disgusting scars around his lips, his dry, brittle hair falling over his face frame, and his violent eyes, gave him back the image of a predatory monster. A dangerous one. He felt deeply alienated. Nothing in that reflection made him remember anything of his past, nothing in it was  _ familiar. _ On the contrary, he was scared of his own reflection. He  could only think about Ifan ’ s shock when that night, Sandor's image disappeared to be replaced by  _ this. _ Slowly, he put down the mirror, turning it over on the  stretcher, and cried for a moment .

Somehow, recovering his sight did not make him as happy as he had imagined. But at least, it was another sense more to use in his memory recovery, in his desperate chase after that  _ familiarity _ . And to start that exploration, he began with books. As soon as Tarquin considered he was recovered from the painful procedure, Gregorio started to spend most of his time secluded in the Guardians' library, reading alone day after day.

* * *

“ There you are. ” Sebille jumped some rocks and reached the precarious camp made on the cliff, behind some stones that worked as a shelter,  “ I see your old habits  are still there, ” she sat beside Ifan and inhaled deeply, letting the salty air fill her lungs,  “ and I end up  _ always _ looking for you. ”

Ifan did not say a thing at first. He was preparing a campfire for the evening. By his side, Afrit was laying close to him,  lazily  waving his tail. The size of the spectral wolf was smaller than usual, and seemed to be wounded or exhausted. The flickering Source was affecting the poor animal too. 

“ Everyone is worried  for  you. ” Sebille insisted.

“ I know. Believe me. I know. ” He scratched Afrit's head and the wolf disappeared,  “ I know I've been a disaster lately... but... I always was. Since the moment I left home to join the bloody Order. I don ’ t think I’ve stopped, not even once. I've always been like this … especially when... I lose balance … uhm... But I'm doing my best. ”

“ You sure? ”

Ifan scoffed at that sarcasm,  “ I won't kill myself. Don't worry." He smirked, knowing that now his survival instinct was stronger than ever, and would force him to live even if he did not want to. Sure, his drudanae habit had gone a bit out of control, but that was exactly his survival instinct's working. It was not always the wisest, but it always provided him some solution to keep going on. "I'll return in a couple of days. I just need... some time alone.  A nd fresh air. ”

“ You  _ really _ sure? ”

Finally, Ifan looked at her, tired, and shook his head. Both smiled, recognising they could not lie to each other, they had many shared years of friendship not to see the tricks hidden under the layers.  “ Well, there is nothing sure in this life. You know that. ”

Sebille put her hand on Ifan's shoulder and squeezed it. Then, something caught her attention, while her sight fell on his lips. She frowned.  “ Did you hurt your lips? ”

Ifan shrugged, “Maybe.” He bit his lower lip, showing her one of the most common gestures he had been doing lately. 

“ It doesn't match. It's... ” She squinted, approaching Ifan. She needed to be sure before vocalising it so she scratched that mark with a finger,  “ I t's your lip mark. That... that should not be there. It had  gone a long time ago. ”

Disconcerted, Ifan took a knife from his belt and used its blade to see his lips reflected on it. It was true, a mark was there. The  _ marriage _ mark.  “ What the hell... ”

“ Is it? ”

“ How's that possible? ” He put the knife in his belt again and caressed his lips.  “ Do you know anything about this? ”

“ Never heard of it. ” She knew, like the rest of the elves, that the soul-mark faded slowly after the spouse ’ s death or the vanishing of their  feelings . And once it happened, there was no way back. "Maybe it's another symptom of this broken world. ” She squinted at the sea, the sky was darker than it should be at that early time, and Void cracks could be spotted among clouds.  “ The Veil is thin, the realms are diffuse. My best guess? What separates the Hall of Echoes from our realm is getting thin too. ”

“ Damn. ” Could Sandor's emotions come from the Hall of Echoes and reprint their vows on his lips once again now that the wall between realms was getting thinner over time? He sighed. He activated his spirit vision, wondering if it could provide him some answer, if he could see, at least for the last time, Sandor's spirit and ask him forgiveness for his harsh words  _ that _ day. But he found nothing, like every day.

“ Maybe we should ask Saheila. ” Sebille said.

“ Yeah... maybe in a couple of days. I ’ m not coming back right now. ”

Then, a sudden violent noise broke the calm sound of the sea and agitated its waves. The racket of the space being torn apart made them put on-guard, hiding their presence behind some rocks. Cliff down,  on the beach, an enormous crack appeared, and some Lizards crossed through it. They took positions, forming rows and columns of soldiers. The last of them, a Red Lizard, landed on the sand majestically, followed by another one like him. After them, several Voidwoken joined them, adding more lines to the military formation. 

Ifan and Sebille looked at each other.  “ Am I seeing right? ” Ifan whispered, wondering if his abstinence of drudanae was messing with his mind. 

“ Yes. ” She said, nodding with emphasis. 

Their surprise did not come only from the strange alliance between Voidwoken and Lizards, but especially from the visage of their former adventurer fellow, the Red Prince —  now King —  and his consort, Queen Sadha (*). 

“ Don't you need more numbers? ” Sadha said, looking at the rows. They were only a hundred, more or less.

“ They cannot use any disgusting elf anymore. Only humans and dwarves are available now. And they are t ired. With these numbers, we are more than enough. You can summon our children. ” He said. 

Sadha extended her arms and a dark mist came out from her claws, making bigger the already opened crack from where they had just come in.  “ It will take time. They can't pass through this opening. ”

Angry, Ifan sighed and whispered, "Are they going to bring those damn dragons? Too close to the Keep. We need to stop them. ”

“I know.” Sebille said, unsheathing her daggers, worried as much as her companion. A hundred of Lizards from the House of War against a wounded man and her? She smiled, this was truly a big gamble. 

Ifan twisted his neck, grabbed his crossbow, and looked at her,  “ Outlaw style? ”

She grinned,  “ Outlaw style. ”

Both jumped from the cliff to the beach, landing in the middle of the rows of lizards. In an instant, Ifan cast massive crossbows made of Source and aimed against the rows while Sebille rushed among them slitting throats in the middle of confusion.

On the spot, they annihilated half of the formations and focussed on Sadha. Without much effort, Sebille sneaked past the remaining rows and killed the Queen before she could finish the ritual. Without the Lizard's energy sustaining it, the crack returned to its original size. 

After an intense combat, both ended up surrounded by the Lizards and the Voidwoken, outnumbered. But it was alright. They had stopped the main threat. 

An affected laugh and a slow, lazy clapping could be heard while the soldiers moved aside to let the Red King walk toward them.  “ Fantastic entrance. So dignified for war heroes. But you are betrayers that shall not have the honour of serving a noble King such as myself. ” He squinted at Sebille,  “ I still feel the pain in my chest since the last time you... killed me. ”

Sebille rolled her eyes. 

The sound of bones caught their attention. They looked at a side, where Shada's body had fallen, and could see a purple glowing mist around it. Slowly, her lifeless limbs moved. She stood up and smiled at the intruders. 

Sebille and Ifan frowned in horror, understanding in that instant the real nature of all what was happening. 

“ Bow to the King of these lands, accept the destiny that the mighty House of Death will bring upon you. ”

“I can't believe this,” Ifan said, “_You have destroyed_ the rest of the houses \-- _your_ Empire \-- to become this? A puppet of the God King?”

“ This is my promised throne, this is the power I'm destined to wield. I shall not listen to hollow words. ”

The Red King drew his sword and attempted to attack, but Ifan jumped up to the cliff, in a tactical retreat, while Sebille used a smoke bomb to do the same, spreading confusion in the Lizards and Voidwoken that were surrounding her. Without second thoughts, both ran to the Keep, several kilometres away. They needed to reach it as soon as possible and prepare the defence. This attack was going to be tougher to resist than the previous one.

* * *

Panting, Ifan and Sebille reached the Keep and barked several orders to prepare the resistance squads. The Guardians that showed some relief in seeing him once again, could not enjoy the pleasant emotion much longer. The commanding voice of Ifan put everyone in stress, automatically obeying him. 

“ I'll take care of the air defence, ” Sebille said,  “ I'll look for Slane, you must talk with Gareth. ” She said after a strong pat on Ifan's back. 

He nodded. 

Ifan ordered all the Guardians to pick their weapons and armours, and take defence positions immediately. Gareth appeared minutes later, confused with the sudden tensed commotion in the Keep. When he was going to congratulate Ifan's for his  return , he was informed about the surprise attack that the Lizard were preparing, and all his good cheer became raw tension. 

“ And this is worse than just a second attack, ” Ifan said, wearing his pauldrons while walking to the weaponry with Gareth.  “ They are with the God King. ”

“ That's... that's impossible. ”

“ The Red King, that bastard from Fort Joy, do you remember? the red  _ speshul _ Big-Pants Lizard? That’s the leader. ”

“ Wasn't he dead when we escaped that isle? Malady... well... killed him. ” Gareth said, taking a shield from the weaponry. 

“ He is sworn. The heraldry we saw, the black shield with the skull? That’s the House of Death,  _ his _ house. All this time, the only one expanding in the North, has been him. ”

Gareth blinked.  “ He... he destroyed the Lizard empire by himself? ”

“ I know, insane. ”

Gareth sighed,  taking time to process the information. Then, worry took over him, and swallowed,  “ We don't have the elven power now. ”

“ They know that, that's why they are attacking with few numbers. This is bad.  _ This is very bad _ . ” Ifan said.

With all the commotion in the Keep, Lysanthir made his way to the weaponry, walking slowly and hugging the walls. He had heard that Ifan had just returned to the Keep, and now he was preparing a defense against a sudden attack. When he finally reached his destiny, Lysanthir let his body  slide down against the wall, and sat on the ground, pressing his temple but smiling at Ifan. Worried, the commander lopped off his conversation with Gareth and strode towards the elf, helping him to sit on a bench.

“ Good to see you are okay, I was worried sick about you. ” Lysanthir whispered.

Ifan squeezed Lysanthir's shoulder and warmly smiled at him.  “ Thank you. You didn't need to. I see you are still a mess. ”

“ You can't imagine how it is on the inside, ” The elf pointed out his own temple. 

Ifan looked down, a bit of blush colouring his cheeks,  “ Sorry about... the other day. ”

Lysanthir shook his head and patted Ifan's cheek softly,  “ That's what my people  call a human tantrum, a child pout. Not a problem. Now, what we have out there- ” he pointed out toward the door,  “ That's a complete mess, ” he looked at the Guardians, coming and going out from the weaponry, getting their gear and running to their positions.  “ I've heard what's happening. I asked Saheila if we could fight with the Gift again. She refused. ”

Ifan winced,  “No exceptions?  Even if all our lives are at stake? ”

“ She can't control you if you are not clean. This side-effect is more like an intoxication of our minds. You can't control what's not stable. Otherwise, it will endanger everyone, and we could attack Guardians even. So... ” He sighed,  “ things are more complicated this time. ”

“ I don't understand how she didn't see this before. What a seer, uh? ”

“Well, our last victory changed many things in the time weave, in the way our history is written, so she didn't see it before. And now, she can barely see what's around her. She is too weak. We all are.”

Ifan twitched his mouth. Lysanthir's eyes fell once again  o n Ifan's lips and frowned. 

Noticing what he was watching, Ifan smiled,  “ I know. Weird. ”

Lysanthir blinked.  “ How? ”

He shrugged,  “ I wonder the same. You are the scholar here. Can this come back after your partner's death? ”

“ I used to be a scholar, not anymore. But no. Never heard of it. ”

But they could not keep talking. Shouted orders along the corridor hinted that the enemy had been spotted already on the horizon. With a worried look in his eyes, Lysanthir nodded at Ifan and allowed him to run to take his own position. 

Outside, the numbers were closely even  on the ground , but the great disparity was in the air when the Lizards displayed their air fleets, overflying the Keep with two of the festering dragons that had been reduced to ashes in their first fight. It seemed that Saheila had only drained the Source of one, or the God King had granted them a second chance, as he usually did with their most valuable subjects. 

Slane and his soldiers raised from the Kee p and fought the dragons more or less evenly, taking control of the situation. However, they became overwhelmed when new cracks were opened in the dark sky and allowed the passage of more formations of flying Voidwoken. The Guardian archers had to split their attacks on ground and air, to keep at bay the flying waves, preventing them from getting closer to the Keep. No matter their effort, the pouring of enemies from the cracks was so intense that vast masses of Voidwoken outnumbered them soon. 

The flying Voidwoken carried several small ones on their backs, dropping them in the bailey of the Keep every time they got close enough. With this strategy, the combat front, mostly focused on the Keep’s main gate, was easily shifted to a dual front, the external and the internal one. 

DeSelby and her squads, enhanced by the presence of Sebille and Lohse, focused on the bailey destroying every dropped creature without much effort. However, everyone knew that such efficiency was going to decrease eventually, as tiredness would wear them down. 

Ifan and his archers kept cleaning the waves of Lizards and Voidwoken that headed to the main entrance of the Keep. The Guardian mages continued throwing fireballs and lightning bolts, and those who could, even healing spells. It was well known the harming effect of that  type of magic against their undead enemy. It was a desperate action to maximise the damage inflicted. 

When Tarquin saw that maneuver, he rushed to the mage formations and told them to stop wasting the only means they have to keep their own wounded soldiers alive. It was not a wise decision to burn that magic in times of flickering Source. However, Ifan gave the order to continue using them anyway. The only thought controlling his mind was the fact that the most important elves left in Rivellon after the  _ Deathfog _ , were now weakened and in danger  of being completely exterminated by  Lizard  troops if they did not win this battle. 

After hours of combat, the enemy reached the big wooden gate of the Keep, pushing it, kicking it, blasting it with cursed magic. Despite the archers' desperation in cleaning the enemy waves, the Voidwoken were now outnumbering everyone. Finally, the gate broke, and a swarm of Voidwoken entered the first part of the now abandoned town. 

However, the enemy found the last defense there. A long line of silent monks were standing in front of the gate, immobile, awaiting them. From afar, Tarquin introduced a ball of his own Source into the small box held in his hand, and activated the control of the monks. They immediately attacked the creatures. The waves of Voidwoken could come in, but the silent monks would keep them at bay, never getting tired, never caring about their own wounds. 

From the highest tower of the external wall, Ifan and Gareth observed the overwhelming situation while new cracks in the sky poured more and more Voidwoken into the battle. The last defense line in front of the entrance gate was still containing the Voidwoken, but in a half hour, they had lost two silent monks already. Their discarded bodies had been thrown meters away like destroyed rag dolls, unable to get up and keep fighting anymore; all their bones had been broken and their flesh shreded.

In the internal bailey, DeSelby was showing the first  signs of tiredness while more and more flying Voidwoken kept dropping creatures inside the Keep. Slane and his fighters, despite trying to kill them, were too focused on the festering dragons, now more powerful than before. Their cursed fire was the most dangerous attack against the Keep, because the dark living tendrils spawned with it could expand too easily on the surfaces, eroding everything.

At the distance, more rows of Lizards and Voidwoken kept coming in. Gareth shook his head, looking down at his hands in tight fists. This was a lost battle. 

“ It was an honour to fight by your side. ” He said without looking at Ifan.

Ifan blinked as aware of the situation as Gareth, and grunted.  “ Fuck this. We are not going to die uselessly here. Prepare the flying machine. Take all the elves, and fill the rest with the most  skilful Guardians, and send them to Driftwood. ” Ifan shouted. He dropped his crossbow on the ground and ran down the wall heading to the weaponry, followed by a confused Gareth.

“ What? We can't use the flying machine, it is the easiest target for the dragons. ”

“ Slane will understand the strategy. His people will protect us. ” Ifan passed beside a sword rack and took one from them.  “ If we don't retreat now, we are all as good as dead. ”

Sliding with difficulty against the walls, Lysanthir appeared, confused. He had heard the new orders and was now frowning at Ifan.  “ What the hell did you order? ” He said enduring the dizziness, now worse than before due to the stress.

“ No more choices. ” Ifan took a shield from another rack, and fidgeted his necklaces, sighing deeply. It was a fraction of a moment in which he let all his fear be transparent to his fellows. He took Sandor's amulet and squeezed it. 

“ Gareth! you cannot allow this order! ” Lysanthir leant his body weight on Gareth's arms, almost tripping off,  “ Y ou are the General. Your order is the last one... ”

Ifan and Gareth looked at the elf, as if his words would have been a naïve suggestion. Was it not self-autonomy the core of the Guardians? Was it not laudable to break the chain of command in order to do the right thing? This situation had no way to end well. Like Arx, they had to do another exodus, leaving too many bodies behind. Living one day more to fight, protecting as much as possible. That was the essence of this new Order, and neither Ifan nor Gareth were going to waste more lives  than the necessary ones . With teary eyes, Lysanthir looked at Ifan waiting for some answer. 

“ As I said, take Saheila and the rest of the elves, fill the ship with as many Guardians as you can. Let the wounded ones here. We are going to fight to the very end. ” Ifan said. 

“ Don't. ”

Gareth blinked.  “ Ifan... we... we can't let you behind. You are a good fighter. ”

Ifan laughed bitterly.  “ I was. Not anymore. ” He extended his hand, trembling uncontrollably.  “ Gareth, you must aboard that ship, you are the head of this Order, and as far I've seen, you didn't fall into the same vices that Lucian or any other bastard commanding people did. Keep on that. And  _ try _ to save Rivellon. ” He straightened his back and saluted at Gareth,  “ It was an honour to fight with you, despite your strange faith in Lucian. ” Ifan winked at him. 

Gareth smiled,  “ You are one of  a kind. ”

Ifan shrugged and then looked at Lysanthir, nodding in a silent goodbye.

“ Wait. What are you going to do? ” The elf said. 

“ I'll buy you time. I'll help Tarquin with his silent monks, and push the waves back. ” Out of nowhere, Afrit appeared by his side, nervous, walking from one side to another around Ifan.  “ Slane will contain the air attacks, I'll do the same on the ground. ”

“ You alone? ”

Ifan squinted,  “ I won't let the lasts of the elves be massacred. Again. Not on my watch. ”

“ You are going to die  on the spot . ” Lysanthir's voice quivered. 

“ No. I ’ m a Godwoken, remember? Besides, I have this. ” He lifted the amulet around his neck. The blue gem sparkled a bit. Sandor's amulet still contained an enormous amount of his healing Source, only usable on Ifan.  “ I will fall as many times as my body can't resist anymore, but this will keep me getting up. ” Ifan looked down, placing the amulet once again beneath his clothes, ashamed. In a fraction of a second, that old discussion with Tarquin came to his mind again. He was going to be not much different than any of those silent monks commanded to fight until the breaking point. 

“ Ifan... that's the most stupid plan I've heard coming from you. Where is the shit you taught to your recruits? Trust others? Use your brain? Run to have another day to fight? Rebuild. You are just wasting your life. ”

Ifan winced.  “ I don't like this, Lysanthir. We have the Lizards and the Voidwoken kicking our asses. This is not a battle we can win. You  _ know _ it. Not without the elven trick, so I'll buy time. Because otherwise, more people will die to let a bunch escape. If we are going to sacrifice some lives... make them be the lesser ones. You always said that crap with the silent monks.”

The elf ’ s lips twitched,  “ Then, let  _ them _ buy us time. ”

“They are not smart. They need someone to command their leashes. They need Tarquin around to give them orders. And once he is dead... the silent monks are useless. “

Lysanthir scoffed, desperation in crescendo,  “ There  _ must _ be another solution. There is  _ always _ another solution. ” Lysanthir's nervous tears fell, looking at everywhere, trying to find a better plan, a win card, an overlooked trick, something. Only muffled screams and battle noises reached them in the weaponry. 

Ifan smiled.  _ There is always another solution _ . Sandor used to say that too. Such a scholar ly thing. Leaving them there, Ifan ran to the entrance gate, Afrit by his side, and joined Tarquin and his silent monks. 

Burning his Source with thousands of floating crossbows, and arrows storming over the enemy waves, he pushed them outside the gate. When he had a moment to respire, Ifan ordered Tarquin to escape in the flying machine with Infirma. They were invaluable assets. Without second thoughts, Tarquin gave him the commanding box of the silent monks and left. 

With the remaining mistreated silent monks that were bleeding profusely, Ifan went out from the Keep and ordered to mortar the gate behind him. The massive waves of enemies covering the land, running toward him made him shiver in pure fear.

He sighed and rubbed the amulet under his clothes. Since he left the Divine Order, he had stopped praying. However, for this time, for this  _ last _ time, he did it. A short caring sentence for Melati (*), a wish for Nueleth, an apology for Sandor. And without second thoughts, he  tightened his grip around  his shield and sword and commanded the silent monks to attack wildly. All of them rushed into the enemy front.

As he had imagined, he fell several times in the battlefield, close to death in each of them, but the glowing amulet kept making him return on his feet.  Al though the recovery was too slow to maintain the same level of combat after each fall, Ifan continued. 

As he had continued every time he had fallen in his life. It did not matter the tiredness in his weakened joints, the Source ashes burning every fibre of muscle of his body, the shreds of flesh that some bites ripped apart, the blood soaking his own sword and shield. He always found a way to continue. That was the core of his spirit. To keep on, even when he did not want to.

Ironically, this battle, being alone and surrounded by outnumbering enemies, occurred to him to be the last cleansing process in which he could wash his sins with his own blood. Between slashes and clashes, he remembered Aywyn and his twisted way to touch him. A touch that was made of pure pain, that hurt him each time, that healed his wounds with sadistic pleasure, just to reopening them immediately after.

_ Because that is how punishment cleans the soul, since not everything can be truly healed, _ Aywyn used to tell him. 

And Ifan had believed him since then, acquiring a strange taste in enjoying the pain offered by open wounds. They meant to wash his sins, even though, deep down, they kept twisting something inside him. In that sense, this battle was not different than a single day by Aywyn's side. 

Ifan embraced every wound received during this fight in the name of the elves, of his victims killed for a paid contract, of the children he had left orphan, of the atrocities he had witnessed and overlooked them. All these old regrets and memories returned in that moment, forcing him to pay its due price. This was going to be the last payment of his enormous debt. At least, in his mortal life. He knew that, in the afterlife, another kind of punishment had to be awaiting him. His hands were too soaked in blood to get rid of the debt.

Possessed by the shadows of his most twisted past, by those grey cold eyes of Aywyn, in trance with the sharp pain in his flesh, after falling and getting up soon afterwards, Ifan did not notice the flickering glow of the amulet and its cracked surface. The blue healing Source was getting weaker and weaker after every fall. 

This was the end. The final rest he  always  hoped for after a life of too much to bear. He thanked Melati once more for her motherly love before feeling a sword piercing his chest, and saw a pair of lizard dead eyes observing his fall to the ground. He did not get up again. 

A thunder cracked over the Keep, and a cone of intense light coming from its centre raised to the skies. From it, a dome shield slowly opened down around the Fortress, covering it wholly. Every undead or Voidwoken that touched the  light vanished immediately. At first, everyone was paralysed by that gentle light touching their scarred bodies, shocked in fear. The Guardians could recognise it as Arhu's warm magic, a shield that had protected them in their exile from Arx, months ago. 

Surprised, Slane flew to the main bailey in order to check the nature of the phenomenon. However, he rose to the skies soon afterwards, with Malady on his back swaying her spear. They glided to the middle of the battlefield where Malady conjured a furious storm of  lightning and earthquakes that electrocuted or crashed the enemy, draining their souls for her consumption, breaking their sworn nature in the process. Fearing for his own soul  becoming a victim of this demonic skill he had not seen before, the Red King and his consort retreated, fleeing through a Void crack.

Malady killed the remaining Voidwoken and closed some cracks in the skies , giving  a deserving break to the Keep that seemed to have been enduring a big toll during her absence . Then, she returned to the Fortress. When the battlefield was calmed, and the last Voidwoken survivors were slashed, the Guardians could finally breathe again. 

“I can't leave you all alone for a moment that you are all drowning in such a mess?” Malady sighed long and deep when she got off from Slane's back in the bailey and looked at the beaten Guardians around her. She saw the flying machine being in the middle of preparations while some soldiers were carrying weakened elves into it. She squinted, unable to understand the situation.

Lysanthir, barely standing on his feet, lent part of his  body weight on Gareth ’ s shoulder.  “ Where is Ifan? ” He said as soon as  he  made visual contact with her. 

Malady raised an eyebrow,  “ Where was he supposed to be? ”

“ He was buying us time to evacuate the Keep before you appeared, ” Lysanthir explained as Arhu —in his human form— approached the group. He observed everything with his  amused cat eyes and crossed his arms. He seemed to be enjoying the unexpected situation of the Keep. 

“ He was  in the middle of the battlefield. ” Gareth said. 

Malady remained silent, observing the bailey. Hundreds of dead Voidwoken bodies were spread, while some wounded Guardians and several elves barely walking approached them to hear the news. She looked at Tarquin who, curious, had just left the flying machine with Infirma by his side. Then, Malady observed Gareth and spoke,  “ What happened here  _ exactly _ ? ”

“ We had been attacked by Lizards a week ago. The whole army. We fought and made them retreat. We have discovered that Lizards and Voidwoken are not only associated, they both respond to the God King. We were in the middle of their second attack. ” Gareth said.

Malady rolled her eyes.  “ Ah, I should have known. Of course it was him. Bloody God King. ” She looked at Arhu,  “ So? You can protect this for a while. It seems they have been dancing long enough. ”

Arhu smiled,  “ The barrier is fine and strong. No Voidwoken or undead will dare to touch it, so if the Lizards are now undead too, much better for us. We don't even need to think about them. ”

“ We need to find Ifan, he was out there... ” Lysanthir insisted.

Malady frowned and looked at Gareth,  “ Was he alone? surrounded by thousands of Voidwoken? So stupid he became? ”

“ He went with the Silent monks. ”

“ Aaah. Mnh, I see. Smart move. Sending all those who are beyond solution to a suicide mission, just to buy time. Smart. Then he was in the right group. ” She tilted her head several times, thinking  about the idea and looking up, convinced.  “ Okay, smart indeed. ” She clapped once and rubbed her hands,  “ What's next? Oh, yes, Driftwo- ”

“ _ Ifan! _ We need to look for him. ” Lysanthir said frowning at Malady. 

“ Awww, ” Malady pretended sympathy,  “ I know it is hard, but... there is  no point in wasting time. I killed the enemies by opening and closing cracks in the ground. If he was lucky enough not to fall into one of them... he didn't give any  sign of being alive either. I didn't see any movement on the battlefield. I'm sure he is dead. ”

The natural tone with which Malady was narrating the event, turned the blood of all the present Guardians into ice . Despite Ifan's recent weakness, everyone adored their chill commander Ben-Mezd. To lose him at this point in the war was going to destroy their morale.

“How do you know he is dead?” Lysanthir insisted.

“ Like I said. Did you glimpse out there? Alone? With a bunch of silent monks? ” She shrugged,  “ At least we got rid of those, they were annoying and not of  much use . ”

Lysanthir straightened his pose and walked away from Gareth, swaying with each step,  “ I'll look for him. Even if he is dead, he deserves a grave, at least. ” He stumbled, being caught by Sebille. 

She looked at Malady with mistrust, and then to Lysanthir,  “ Stay here, I'll check. ”

* * *

In dragon form, Slane flew over the camp with Sebille on his back. The beautiful golden sands of the desert of Stormdale were now a camp of decay and blood and ichor. The scars of the earthquakes summoned by Malady could be easily seen, crafting deep lines on the sand that would last several days until the wind could cover them. 

Malady was right, it was impossible to know where Ifan could be with so many bodies everywhere. However, by the corner of her eye, Sebille caught a glint. Something soft and flickering. From a mass of bodies, a dim light, barely spotted due to the darkness covering the skies, was twinkling, as the last signal of a hopeless man. 

Her heart pounded faster as Slane flew in that direction. She had found  _ him _ . Or what was left of his body. Several Voidwoken corpses and lifeless Lizards were laying around him. He was soaked in blood and ichor, one of the many necklaces around his neck was the one flickering. The small bits of Source remaining in it, fighting to perform what that amulet was meant to do, were now completely exhausted. 

She let herself be overwhelmed by that sight. It was so sad to see the end of a friend. Especially in  such a dirty place, so corrupted and surrounded by despair. Wincing, Sebille knelt before that body and touched his forehead; it was still warm. 

She sniffed and wiped out a rebel tear, staining her own cheek with ichor in the process. At least she was going to guarantee him a grave and the fulfilment of his  _ Dhaleram _ duty. She took her dagger and placed its point on Ifan's chest, ready to open that shredded torso to reach his heart. She had to honour him in the elven fashion, after all.

Gathering strength to sink the blade, she looked at the necklaces once more. That amulet was still glowing, flickering, cracking itself, in a stubborn attempt of doing something that was not able to do anymore. She put the dagger aside, and touched the amulet, feeling that well known Source that had healed her in battle years ago. Sandor's last bits in this world. 

She pressed the gem against Ifan's dead chest.  And  then, something felt odd. She frowned and remained absolutely quiet, observing that chest. And just then, she saw it. A small slow movement, up and down, painfully fighting to keep on living. She gasped and pressed her fingers against Ifan's neck. And there it was, again. The last echoes of a heart that was not sure how to work with all that blood loss, but still it continued. A body that could not do anything else but  keep on surviving. 

“ You fucking  _ do not  _ die on me! ” she ordered, and carelessly, she lifted the man in her arms and jumped over Slane's back, flying in a rush to the fortress. She was again that slight, rare chance that made the dice fall on one of its angles, spinning endlessly, remaining in that fragile balance for a long, long time. 

Sebille kicked the door of the clinic, startling Tarquin and making Infirma release a small cry after such a stressful day they had got.

“ What the hell your manners with- ” Tarquin said, but his words were interrupted by the image of that gore man in her arms. 

Sebille threw the bleeding body on a stretcher and looked at Tarquin.  “ Move! He is dying. ”

Tarquin approached the patient, but he only could observe the destroyed shape of that body, unable to know where to start. The skin colour was too grey already, his torso was lacerated with such brutality that part of his inside was exposed. 

Tarquin looked at Sebille, shaking his head slowly.  “ I don't know how to heal this. I know this may be shocking for you all, since I can't stress this enough, but I'm  _ not _ a healer. I can't rebuild a body ripped to shreds. And everyone who could barely use healing spells has burnt their healing magic against the Lizards. We... We have nothing to treat this. I mean, potions will do nothing at this point. ”

With tears in her eyes, Sebille winced at him as if that truth was too much to handle. Then, she looked at the  gory mess of Ifan’s face. “You are lying.”

“ We have been healing people with potions in the traditional old fashion. I'm not a natural healer. No healer survived Arx. ” Tarquin explained. He could add that maybe if that man that was dying on the stretcher had been smart enough to trap Nyw instead of killing him, they would have an extra option now. There were many easy spells to control the mind of an unwilling healer. But he remained silent. Such a comment was not going to help in that situation.

“ So... what? We are going to  watch him die? ” Her voice quivered, as short rattles of death could be heard coming from that destroyed body. 

“ I am afraid this... this is beyond my ability.  _ Too beyond _ . ” Tarquin sighed, caressing his own forearm. His own skin condition had been getting worse over the last  weeks  exactly for that reason. He had never been a healer. His limitations on that matter, despite hating to recognise them, were impossible to overcome.

Bitter and resigned to that fate, Sebille sat on a stool close to the stretcher, and observed the end, trying to convince herself that this was, in the end, the best way for his friend to  die . In battle, protecting his people, knowing his death would mean something in the big scheme, before his addiction would destroy him further. She was going to wait  till the very end and would honour him, as he deserved. And like she promised time ago, she would deliver parts of his  _ Dhaleram _ body to other elven tribes, if they survived  the end of the world. She owed that to  such a great friend. 

“ Tarquin, I need your opinion on... ”

A broken voice entered the clinic. It was Gregorio, who looked at Sebille not knowing who she was until he heard her voice. Then, he looked at Tarquin and Infirma, placed around a stretcher where a dead body was displayed. 

Curious, letting his fear increase, Gregorio tilted his head, as conclusions ran fast in his head.  “ Who is he? No... Do not tell me... No... ”

He walked slowly, his body still in pain  as a result of the process of recovering his sight. Tarquin and Infirma moved aside to let the man inspect that body. They retired to their desks, resuming their work and leaving the silent monk and the elf to stay present in the last unconscious moments of that man. 

Gregorio reached out Ifan's face and observed it. It was hard to see it, all covered with ichor and blood. He looked at the torso, ripped to shreds, and his attention returned to that face. He touched those scars  on his forehead and cheek,  he saw  _ that beard _ , and  all these elements made him identify  that body  without doubts. It was  _ him _ . It was...  _ Ifan _ . Gregorio winced,  and burst into tears  soon after. That body... was  _ dead. _

“ You promised me to come back, and let me see your face.  _ Alive. _ _ ” _

One last death rattle proved that there was still a tiny, minuscule bit of energy in  the body. And that was all what Gregorio needed to feel it. A small spark appeared in his mind, a warm breeze surrounded him, and then, like a column, a broad and dense ray of Source was triggered from within his cripple body, burning his flesh in ravenous Source flames. His eyes shone violently, and forgetting his own pain, Gregorio placed his palms on Ifan's body and infused him with that Source, all at once. 

“ You won't die. ”

Suddenly, the Source tongues that wrapped Ifan in an intense healing magic burnt the blood and the dirt covering him, and accelerated the natural process of healing, closing his open wounds in his torso, replacing the grey tone of his skin  by  a more vivid one, regenerating the blood loss. His heart recovered its normal rhythm. 

Wrapped in that intense surge of Source, Gregorio pressed his fingers against Ifan's neck and smiled as soon as he felt the pulse. With that gesture, he fell on the ground immediately afterwards. 

The scholars and Sebille, paralysed by the shock of what they had just witnessed, took their time to react when fast steps from the corridor reached the studio, and the door was opened violently. Arhu, Malady, and Gareth, with several Guardians behind them, burst into the place, wielding weapons. 

“ What's happening here? Where did all that energy come from? Has the veil been broken here? ” Malady asked. 

She observed Ifan's body on the stretcher, Gregorio's on the ground, Sebille in front of them, as shocked as Infirma on the other corner of the room, and Tarquin —  already recovered —  just sighed in disappointment. 

“ You know... ” He said,  “ I hate that snowflake silent monk. He cannot be a  _ normal  _ Silent Monk, no. No. He cannot. ”

* * *

Ifan awoke in his bed due to the sound of a lute. It started as a far away song, whose harmonics —  diffuse at first —  became clearer, ending in a beautiful melody close to his feet. Groaning, he frowned, opening his eyes, slowly. He saw a stone ceiling. It occurred to him that this was a terrible joke if the afterlife was... made of stone. He sneezed several times, yelping out at the end of each sneeze since every fibre of his body was hurting. Certainly, he was not dead. 

He could feel the soreness left in muscles that had been torn apart, and the dryness that remains once all the Source is burnt at once. There was also something else familiar in his body, something that brought him dearly memories, but he could not identify it clearly. He sneezed a couple of times more.

He looked at his hands, still trembling. Maybe he truly needed some hint by now. 

“ I'm so happy to see you alive. ”

Ifan turned his face and sniffed, while his sight struggled to focus. Slowly, that long body sitting by his bed, accompanied by a redhead woman who stopped the lute immediately, took a more defined shape. 

“ Our favourite suicide commander is still with us. ” Lohse said. 

After another sneeze, Ifan rubbed his face and sighed.  “ Well, I still didn't kick the bucket, uh? I'm  _ so _ lucky, right? ” His voice tone was full of disappointment. 

Sebille hit his shoulder, and he yelped, frowning at her. The silly touch had had a painful reverberation all over his body.  “ Uhm. Sorry... ” Sebille smiled,  “ but if you want to blame someone, blame Gregorio. ”

He raised an eyebrow, confused. 

“ Yes, I know it sounds weird, but... Gregorio saved you. ”

He could not make sense of that. “ Are we safe? Are we still in the Keep? ”

“ Yes, yes, don't worry. Malady and Arhu forced the troops to recede. We are safe. For now. ”

Ifan touched his chest, bit by bit, testing the damage, or at least, the lingering sensation where his flesh had been torn apart.  “ What happened to me? ” He took his necklaces, especially the amulet, and observed it. The gem was dead, cracked, and nothing of Sandor's Source could be perceived in it. What sad bad news.

Sebille continued,  “ I went to the battlefield, retrieved your body, and we were in the Keep, just waiting for you to die. I wanted to fulfil my promise. You know...  “ Ifan frowned, a bit  confused , and looked at her,  “ Your  _ Dhaleram _ business. ”

“ Oh. Sure. Thank you. ” He looked at his hands again, and moved his feet, feeling that nothing was missing. Thankfully, Sebille had awaited long enough before amputating him. He smiled at her warmly and thankfully. 

Sebille shrugged,  “ And then... Gregorio appeared and  …” She blinked, still shocked.  “ He burnt in Source. No wonder he  locked himself. I can't imagine fighting a Gheist with his powers. ” She winced, as the hypothetical situation took form in her mind,  “ He basically brought you back from death. Your body was… worse than… a ragged doll. ”

Ifan scoffed,  “ It still feels like that. ”

Both chuckled softly.

He sneezed again,  “ I need to thank him. ”

Sebille and Lohse shared a look that meant that something was not right but they had decided to keep it quiet . Then, b oth smiled at him. 

“ First, you need to rest and eat properly ” Lohse added,  “ Then you can thank him. ”

* * *

After a couple of days, Ifan finally could get up from his bed and walked along the Keep. Everyone was happy to see him alive. He was a walking good news. All his soldiers shared a cheerful smile with him, and some even dared to hug him. Ifan deeply thanked all that care and fondness; it warmed his grieving soul.

Although she pretended not to care, Malady could not help but smile at his presence; his recovery was good news and it was going to boost the Keep's morale. Something that was always welcomed. Lysanthir, still dealing with the consequences of the  _ Gift _ , found him in the corridor and tripped a couple of times until reaching him and hugging him deeply. Ifan had to stop him because the grip was hurting him.

“ I thought you were dead... ” Lysanthir whispered.

Ifan patted his back, softly, not to make his dizziness worse,  “I was close. Anyways... Where is Gregorio? I was told that he was responsible for bringing me back. I’d like to thank him. ”

“Ah...” Lysanthir's tone became hesitant, “That's...Bad news.”

Ifan shrugged, “In these times, those are the only kind of news we got.”

“ He lost his mind. ” Lysanthir said. 

Ifan frowned,  “ What? ”

“ He went crazy. Maybe... the Source was too much for his... delicate state. ”

Ifan's eyebrow shot up,  “ Where is he now? ”

“ In the infirmary. In the... you know, the  _ reclusive  _ room. ”

Ifan frowned, observing every twitch in Lysanthir’s face. Lohse and Sebille’s secretive behaviour came back to his mind once again. Now more than ever he wanted to see Gregorio. 

Without saying a word, and helping Lysanthir to walk, Ifan headed to Tarquin’s studio. 

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Mother Melati ** [Divinity: Original Sin II, canon]: Elven mother of Ifan.

**Sadha ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3965) ]: Consort of the Red King during the game. According to the prophecy, The Red Prince and she were going to be the parents of dragons. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

“Yes. Lysanthir already told you. There is a little, tiny, small problem...” Tarquin flicked his wrist in front of Lysanthir and Ifan, “I think Gregorio lost his mind _ severely. _”

“How so?” Ifan’s voice was sad and low.

“I imagine the exhaustion caused by the process he has been through to recover his sight, besides that amount of Source he summoned out of the blue ... All that must have been too much for him, mentally speaking.” Tarquin looked down, squinting, as his voice lowered a bit, “I had to collar him too.”

Ifan frowned. Was it one of those leashes to control the silent monks as pets? “ You... what?”

Tarquin looked at the elf, expecting some help coming from him, but Lysanthir remained silent. “His Source is unstable. No wonder why, he has spent so much time as a silent monk, purged, that he probably forgot how to contain it... Besides, there is another issue, when he did that thing-” Tarquin waved his hands several times towards Ifan, “-he refilled himself. I think that, in a sense, unconsciously, he finished the unconventional process to become a Gheist. And that damaged his mind.”

Ifan widened his eyes, shocked, “Is he a Gheist now?” 

Tarquin tilted his head a bit from one side to the other, pondering the idea, “I daresay, he is. You must know that these new Gheists require completely purged Sourcerers, without their senses, so that they can be refilled with Source later. He passed through the first half of the process. He recovered his senses recently, and now, he has been refilled magically with that Source that came from nowhere. I imagine it was one of those strange amulets of yours. It has to be, otherwise, from where he summoned that unbelievable amount of Source?” Tarquin said, observing Ifan's necklaces. 

“It can't be.” Ifan took the gem pending around his neck and showed it to him, “My amulet was broken when I fell last time, that was why I was... dying. There is no more Source in this.”

Tarquin shrugged, “In any case. Whatever happened, it finished the process of being a Gheist without a commanding master and without sealing his senses. As if that was not enough, he lost his mind. Taking into account all these conditions, we don't know what is going to happen with him or how stable he is. Therefore, we need to keep him collared, _ at least _. It’s the most reasonable action to take, considering the context.”

Ifan winced remembering that painful suffocation around his neck, back then when he was heading to Fort Joy. “Can I see him?”

Tarquin sighed deeply. “Just one more thing. _ Do not bother _ me for the means I had to use.”

Ifan squinted at the necromancer, feeling uneasy. He nodded, knowing he was going to regret it. And he did, almost immediately. 

Tarquin allowed him to walk to the bottom part of his studio which was separated with folding screens. Behind them, a cage made of Source-isolating bars(*) contained a man whose wrists and ankles were held with anti-Source shackles and chains, and a collar, of the same material, was around his neck. Gregorio was sitting in the middle of that cage, displayed like a chained animal. Dogs were treated better. Ifan looked at Tarquin with threatening eyes while Lysanthir winced at that sad trapped figure.

“You said he was only collared.”

“Better safe than sorry, my friend. He is now a Gheist without commanding control. It’s safer this way.” 

“He didn't have enough with all those recovery processes of yours? Why in a cage? Why the chains?”

“I'm just being cautious. The notebooks you gave me time ago contained blueprints of interesting powerful restraining devices that Sandor used to wear in order to control his Source. They were quite handy to keep at bay Gregorio's powers. But I'm afraid it may not be enough. That is the reason for the cage. Just in case. We, somehow, managed not to be killed by Lizards and Voidwoken in two battles, no less; let's not tempt fate and give it a chance to destroy us by a mad Gheist awoken in the middle of the fortress.”

“Ifan, it’s you. Are you okay? Nobody wants me to tell me anything about you, or anything. What’s happening?” 

Ifan heard that well known broken voice, but something had changed in it. It had a sad inflection at the end of each phrase, something oddly familiar and long desired to hear once again. Surprised, Ifan frowned and looked at Gregorio. The silent monk was smiling at him and _ watching _ him. 

Ifan smiled back, “Lad, are you _ seeing _ me?”

Gregorio's slight frown suggested that he was not understanding the question, “Why should I not see you?”

Ifan blinked and then looked at Tarquin. 

“I told you, he speaks nonsense.”

“I _ don't _, Tarquin. Ifan, convince this man to get me out of here. I feel sick with these chains and... these.” He shook his wrists and the heavy clank of the chains was heard.

Ifan winced, feeling pity. “The chains and all that. Tarquin said your Source is unstable.”

“When it was not? It is not like this is new, isn't it?”

A bit confused, Lysanthir interrupted. “Gregorio, what's the last thing you remember?”

Gregorio looked at them, silently, and then to his side, as if he were expecting for someone else to appear.

“What are you looking for?” Ifan asked. 

“I don't know; this Gregorio you are talking about? I heard a lot of him so far but never saw him.”

Ifan rubbed his face. They had lost him, indeed. 

“Just to be on the same page, if that’s possible...” Lysanthir said, squinting at Gregorio, “Who do you think you are?”

Gregorio scoffed, “What a silly question.”

“Mind answering it?”

“Sandor. I'm Sandor.”

Tarquin rubbed his temples and sighed in annoyance. “I told you. This silent monk has always been so… complex, to put it lightly.” He whispered.

“Ifan, what happened? Nobody wants to tell me. I'm gaunt, why? Everyone looks different and doesn't believe anything I say; you have to. They have been telling me that I’m not who I am. They don’t listen to me…. nobody hears me here.”

Ifan blinked for a moment. Listening to someone claiming to be Sandor hit him deeply. And for a fraction of a second, the illusion, the impossible dream of Sandor coming back to life was more tangible than any chameleon-like spell. Maybe that night did not only deeply affect Ifan but Gregorio too. It could not be harmless to be called a name that was not his own, and receive all the intensity that Ifan had shared, when it was meant for someone else. There were less cruel ways to harm people, indeed. 

Recovering from the initial shock, Ifan finally spoke, “Look, you are not Sandor. You are Gregorio. Sandor died years ago.”

Gregorio smiled nervously, almost exactly like Sandor used to do when feeling panic before an uncovered dark truth. Ifan frowned surprised by the sudden resemblance.

“No you too. No, Ifan. I'm alive.” Gregorio's eyes become teary, an anxious feeling rising in his mind, “I don't know what's happening, why are you all behaving like this? Let's just go to Arx, to my academy, and you'll see. You _ all _ will see me healing and working in, for example, the black mirror, and in Fane's replica. I've been the only one working on them so far...”

Lysanthir and Ifan shared a concerned look with Tarquin, who spoke turning his palms up as he shrugged, “He has been meddling in my studio for months, he may have heard all that from my conversations with Infirma, and now it is mixed in his confused mind.” Then, he looked at the caged man, “It's easy to prove you are not Sandor, Gregorio.” His sight darted at the commander by his side, “Ifan, ask him something that only Sandor would know. Something between you two.”

Taking a moment to calm down his wild heartbeat before the possibility that his beautiful demonic dreams could come true, Ifan tilted his head a little bit and looked at Gregorio. His eyes were filled with desperate expectations, “Where did we get married?”

Gregorio widened his eyes. “Are we married? When? How?”

Ifan bitterly smiled and looked down. For a moment, _ just for a moment _, he thought that it was possible to recover Sandor in his life. 

Ifan and Lysanthir walked away from the cage and approached Tarquin, speaking in low voice so Gregorio could not listen to them. “Try to heal him. Gregorio is a good man. Now he can see and explore life much better to recover his memories, he doesn't deserve this fate.”

“I’m not a healer, I can’t stress that fact enough in all of you, but I will take care of him to the best of my abilities.” Tarquin nodded, hesitant. Then, walking away, Ifan and Lysanthir headed to the door.

“No! Wait. Ifan, please! Don't leave me.” Those words made Ifan's blood become icy. Despite the broken voice, the inflections in that way of speaking, that constant sad tones lowering at the end of the sentences that were so proper of Sandor, were still there. It was undeniable. Ifan turned over and looked at the caged man, hurt. He wanted to believe, more than anyone in this world. His chest was tight. 

“I can prove I’m me. I know something that nobody can! The corridor. Through your library.” Gregorio said.

“What does that mean?” Lysanthir asked, taking a chair to sit. It was clear this was going to take more time than he expected to, and the stress of the whole situation was increasing his dizziness.

Ifan blinked, confused. 

“Do you want me to explain the details?” Gregorio asked for permission, since that hidden passage had always been their mutual secret. 

“Do it.” Ifan agreed, mistrustful. 

“It's a corridor which connects the commander's chamber with my house. I blocked the corridor with several Source traps, so only we can cross them safely. 

Lysanthir looked at Ifan with a smug smile. “I know about that passage too.”

Ifan snapped his head to Lysanthir. “Do you?”

“I've entered your room many times, wondering why it was always empty when you were supposed to be sleeping there. And I found it.”

“You could have heard that information as well. Maybe Ifan told you an anecdote about it when he was... lost in his smoking.” Tarquin said to Gregorio, ignoring Ifan's darting look. 

“No. Wait! There's more. That time we argued because the black mirr — ” Gregorio stopped his words half-way and blinked in silence. His eyes turned bigger as some memories came back. “Oh, I remember. That's the last thing I remember. You yelled at me, I thought we... the end... Um... I'm sorry Ifan, I know I should have told you about the risks, about the _ Deathfog _ tank, about Infirma's research, but the Black mirror is going to work. And it is going to save lives. And I thought-”

Ifan winced, remembering the bitter emotions of that fateful day. 

Tarquin clicked his tongue several times, “Many people were present at that time. We all saw that... scene.”

Gregorio remained silent for a moment, thinking, and then he spoke calmly, focussed on Ifan. “That time in the Lady Vengeance, when we were heading to Arx for the first time. You... you told me about your bandages around your wrists. I told you about my past. I'll only give you details personally. You know the reasons for the reservation.”

Ifan's eyes become teary. “You cannot know about that... unless...”

“Argh, I had enough of this nonsense.” Lysanthir said, exasperated with so much drama, and approached the cage. He took Gregorio's hand and gave it a deep, long lick all on its back. Tarquin immediately raised his hands to his head.

“No. No, you idiot!” Tarquin shouted. But it was too late.

The memories hit Lysanthir so violently that he started to scream and walk aimlessly. He fell on the ground and crawled, asking for help, crying, whimpering. Ifan tried to give him some comfort, but the contact made him even more violent. Tendrils of Source chaotically appeared and disappeared on his bark-skin.

Tarquin sighed, shaking his head. “Why do you think I've _ never _ asked any elf to just lick this amnesic man? I made that mistake with another silent monk at first. The pain they endure during the process of becoming a silent monk is solidified in their flesh. No matter how much an elf tries, a silent monk’s flesh only keeps the experience of its own creation. Everything else is forgotten. And then you have an elf screaming for ten minutes." He pressed his temples with his fingertips "Oh, fallen gods and demons, my head. I just wanted to be a scholar, not a babysitter.”

When Lysanthir returned to his senses, he found himself exhausted, compressed against a corner of the room, cold sweat covering his back, dizzier than before, and tears running down his cheeks. Ifan was in front of him, waiting for his senses to come back. With his help, Lysanthir sat on the chair again and glared at Tarquin. 

“Don't make _ that _ face, I told you _ NO." _ Tarquin said, "It would have been much better to _ ask _ first to someone who has been working with this man since you brought him.”

“Hell, his flesh is wasted like...wow.” Lysanthis shuddered, still feeling the massive pain transmitted by the memories.

Ifan lifted his sight to Gregorio, focusing on his hands. If that man was Sandor, his hands looked more healed than they had to, the Void Dragon had imprint his mark on his arms. Wanting to check them, he approached the cage and asked Gregorio to show them. Docile, the silent monk did so. Then, Ifan looked at Tarquin. “Did you heal his hands?”

“No, he did it by himself when his Source went out of control with you. I,too, noticed it when I collared him and he almost killed me in the process.”

“It was an accident, I told you.” Gregorio said. “You know how my Source works. I feel like I've not been using Source for a long time. And my pool has increased too much for my usual control. I need to get used to it now. It’s too much.”

“That's what Sandor's used to say about his Source.” Ifan said with a sad smile on his face as his eyes inspected every bit of that monk.

“That's also written all over Sandor’s journals, easy to read them if you are here, around my studio.” Tarquin added. 

Ifan looked at Gregorio until their eyes met again. Those white eyes of constricted pupils gave Ifan goosebumps of the worst kind. “Can you remove your clothes?”

Gregorio frowned, offended for a moment, and then, he blinked, “Oh, It's true! My scars! I had forgotten them.” Gregorio removed his tunic and looked at his left pectoral, surprised in horror. During those days, he had only seen his arms too stressed by the whole situation to think in inspecting his emaciated body in detail. He found on his torso that strange skin condition that had affected Tarquin for years. Or at least, one pretty similar to it. Surprised, Gregorio glared at Tarquin, “You... infected me with this?”

“I didn't. You were purged. It developed naturally.”

“I... I... what?” Gregorio extended his bony arms and inspected them once again, his face wrinkled in repulsion "Is that the reason why I am gaunt?"

Ifan could see no scars on that chest due to the distorted texture of the skin. However, there was a skin colour change around the left pectoral. Or maybe Ifan was imagining it? There were several nudged stains that almost could be considered their marriage mark messed by the skin condition.

Taking a dagger, Ifan observed his own lip on its blade. His mark was still there; there was no doubt about it. Lysanthir looked at him wondering the same.

“Did you explain to him what has happened during these last years?” Ifan asked Tarquin.

“No. He is not Sandor… He lost his mind, no need.”

"Years?" Gregorio said, his eyes widened a little bit.

Ifan assumed that, according to Gregorio's behaviour, he was completely unaware of his life as Gregorio, so he started to briefly narrate everything he knew. Surprised with every event, Gregorio remained speechless. He could not remember anything about that life. Not about the purge, not about the tortuous process to become a silent monk, not that he had been deprived of his voice and sight for years, not about the pain of recovery, and much less about sleeping in Ifan's room. Gregorio’s life was apparently an enormous hole in his memory.

“There is still another proof. The strongest.” Ifan said, inviting Gregorio to get close. Extending his hand, Ifan touched Gregorio's chest, exactly where the marriage mark was supposed to be. The contact hurt Gregorio a little bit, who hissed, accepting the initial pain that Ifan's mark always ignited. 

Encouraged, he asked him to get closer and through the bars of the cage, he kissed him. The touch of their lips made Ifan’s stomach explode in flitting butterflies; now there were no doubts at all. Each detail that had fit so well during that shared night with Gregorio, under the illusion of being Sandor, had not been neither a mere coincidence nor the effect of the drudanae. It had been too real for a mere spell. Now it made sense. It had been Sandor all along. _ Always _. 

For a moment, happiness melted Ifan's heart and some joyful tears escaped from his eyes, smiling, forehead against the bars of the cage, deeply relieved. Sandor cupped Ifan's face between the bars pushing the chains. 

But then, as the memory of Sandor's corpse became more real in his head, Ifan's smile faded. He shook his head, looking for another answer that could not be the one that was raising in his mind. He bit his lip. 

“Why did you do this to us, Sandor?” He said without a hint of reproach. His voice was downy and his tone sad.

“What?”

“You died. I buried your body. There is no other way for you to be here, alive, than.... than being _ sworn. _ You accepted the covenant.”

Sandor remained in shock. “I... I died? I don't remember anything. I would have never accepted the covenant. You must believe me, Ifan.”

“Sooo, you are assuming he is Sandor now?” Tarquin said. 

“No. I'm not assuming anything. I _ know _he is. The elven marks can't be replaced or forged. And they are intact in our bodies as long as the emotions remain, despite the amnesia. If Gregorio is Sandor, and has been feeling things... this is proof enough for me.” He touched his lip.

Lysanthir sighed, nodding. Now, that recent mark on Ifan’s lips made more sense. An amnesic person who falls in love with their spouse once again would reignite the mark, no matter if they forgot completely about their relationship.

Not convinced by those arguments, Tarquin crossed his arms and looked at Gregorio. "So, do you remember you used that ancient spell to lock yourself? The _ Obsistentibus animae _."

Sandor frowned, looking down, forcing some memories. There were so many holes in his past, but somehow, without any context, without knowing why he performed it or in which situation he did it, he could remember casting that spell on himself, crying. Despair tightened his heart as his body shivered with the memory. It had been a decision full of angst, pain, and misery. He winced, "Yes, I do."

“Then, do you remember the picked keys to unlock your memories?” Tarquin said. 

“They are coming to my mind, slowly." He scratched his chin with two fingers making Ifan smile. That was such a Sandor gesture. "First condition, to meet Ifan again, then return to my home, and then… then... the ring!” He blinked and immediately looked at his hand, his fingers extended in the air, “I remember a ring. But I lost it, I don't know how. But it was important.”

Ifan smiled sadly, “It was in your corpse.” Ifan removed Sandor’s ring from his own finger. He had been wearing both, together, in the same finger. He extended his palm upside, inviting Sandor to give his hand, and slowly, slid the ring again in Sandor's finger. "You always used it in a necklace, because magic messed your skin with the metal." Ifan explained while Sandor smiled at the sight of that symbol in his scrawny finger. Despite all that weight loss, it still fitted. 

Tarquin rolled his eyes. “Only an idiot would choose a person as a key. And the first key no less.”

“Yes. But I didn't choose _ any _ person. I'd chosen the one who would survive to the very end." Despite not remembering the context that forced him to self-block his powers, Sandor was quite aware that such action was almost meant to be suicide. If the only means he had to defend himself was his magic and knowledge, and exactly those were the ones he was destroying, chances to survive whatever he was going to face without severe consequences were extremely low. This decision promised to be a deep scar in his life. So he wanted to be sure of living in a world where Ifan would survive as well. It was true, choosing a person as the first key was, more often than not, foolish. Yet, for his particular situation, it was completely deliberate. He had decided not to live in a world without Ifan's kindness. "I chose the only one who would help me to survive later, with the consequences of whatever had happened to me in my blocking time. After all, I'm not good at surviving alone.” Sandor whispered the last words, a bit ashamed. 

Swallowing, Ifan winced, filled with guilt and gratefulness. During many years he had been repeating to Sandor that survival was the most important thing ever, no matter the cost; engraving that concept in Sandor's head had always been the main purpose of his insistence in training him, physically and mentally. However, he would have never imagined that those words could end up causing this nightmare. But he was happy for them to have had such an effect. Otherwise, Sandor would not be alive. 

“So, you accepted the God King to survive?” Ifan’s voice trembled. 

Sandor shrugged, shaking his head, surrendered. “I don't know. I really can't remember. I can't remember a lot of things. I remember the ring, but... are we married? Why would I lose such a unique memory?”

Tarquin sighed, taking a moment to think. Maybe now everything made a bit more sense. “Because you didn't awake through the keys. Let me guess, your emergency wake-up was to see Ifan dying.”

“It was. If I would witness that, I would awake and burn my Source to heal.”

Ifan blinked to avoid some tears falling. 

Tarquin nodded. “Yes. That was what happened. You awoke when he was dying. And you brought him back. You know the price for that. The holes in your memories will be... permanent.”

Sandor looked at Ifan and smiled, tilting his head a bit, and whispered. “Worthy.”

Ifan smiled back and unable to hold it anymore, he let some tears run along his cheeks. He extended his hand into the cage and held Sandor's. Their eyes locked one another.

Tarquin hummed. “Bad memories, especially the ones most painful, usually remain in our mind. They are the most valuable ones. They are engraved in our flesh as well. That is how we learn lessons. Good moments are always the memories you lose first. You lost a lot of good moments, Sandor.”

“Well, that explains why I can't remember when you gave me this ring.” He sighed, a bit sad, convincing himself that it was fair if it meant Ifan's life. “I'm fine with this.”

Touched, Ifan raised his trembling hand and caressed Sandor's cheek, “So, you remember your childhood.”

Sandor looked down. “Yes. But there are some holes in there too.”

“Do you remember Eleny?”

“Who?”

Ifan twitched his lips. “You told me she was a worker... Your mother's friend. She raised you, despite... the place.”

Sandor's teary sight fell on the ground, and then looked aside, his eyes jumping from one point to another, browsing in his shattered memories. He shook his head, unable to remember that name, “Damn...”

Ifan stood up, “Tarquin, take him out of the cage.”

“But... the instability and the Covenant (*) detail...”

“He is Sandor.”

Lysanthir raised his hands. This was a delicate situation, especially after so much problems with Undead and Voidwoken lately. “Let me bring Gareth and Malady here, just in case. This is too dangerous for us to decide.” He stood up and tried to walk quickly but tripped off close to the door frame. He resumed his walk slower and closer to the walls. 

They waited for Malady and Gareth to appear. The news about Sandor surprised everyone in a pleasant way, except for the disturbing fact that now he may have been bound to the God King. 

“I don't trust anyone from the Covenant.” Gareth said, and then looked at Sandor, “Nothing personal.”

Sandor nodded silently, understanding, yet sad.

“What if we make another Swornbreaker (*)?” Ifan asked, looking at Tarquin. 

“I've done that twice, do you think you can craft legendary weapons just by will? We were lucky enough to find materials for two of such rare artefacts and...” He darted a black look at Gregorio, “This man wasted them both in women that had nothing interesting to offer to us.”

During the discussion, Malady kept observing Gregorio, tilting her head from side to side, measuring him. She could not trust just the words of an amnesic man. She asked Tarquin to open the cage and to remove Gregorio's chains, leaving him with only his collar and shackles. 

Malady towered over him, smirking in her unique style while piercing him with her eyes. “Mn, interesting.” She said, every syllable slowly pronounced. 

As she had done years ago, she leant in over Gregorio and bit his ear sensually, sinking her fangs in the cartilage and drinking his blood. After a moment, she released him and recoiled, hissing, enduring all that maddening process that Lysanthir could not do so. She moaned in pain, eyes closed tight. When the moment passed by, and she could release her breath, she bit him again to finally have access to memories beyond the purge. 

She saw parts of Sandor’s past in the Academy as well as some intimate moments shared with Ifan. She overlooked those fragments and kept exploring the flesh's memories to reach that fateful day when Ifan yelled at him to leave the city. So she anchored her mind there, and licked Gregorio's cheek. But it was blocked. Unable to see beyond that stressful moment, she took his hand and bit it once more. Gregorio yelped out, frowning but not resisting the action. He knew what she was doing. 

From thousands of memories, she finally reached that moment in the cottage, in the middle of the forest. Sandor had recently left Arx with the black mirror on his back and had accommodated himself in that house. Days after, a numerous group of Black Ring members attacked him, claiming their leader wanted to craft something new in his flesh. 

Despite being unprepared, Sandor fought against them, burning his Source and killing them quickly, but the victory did not last longer. Some of the corpses returned from death. They were _ sworn _ men. 

Sandor kept fighting to the point to release his shackles, using all his Source, but weakened by the endless fight, he was easily pinned down by the group. Exhausted, tied, and collared, he was unable to defend himself anymore. 

One of the Black Ring members approached the black mirror, and with a movement of his hand on its surface, activated it, allowing more members of the sect to cross it. They spoke in their ancient language for a moment, while one of them approached Sandor. 

The wizard could recognize this person immediately: it was an old fellow from the Balurik academy, a mediocre scholar who was always an enthusiast for the darkest depths of knowledge. With violent manners, he stripped Sandor from his sophisticated robe and accessories, leaving him with only his underwear. For a moment, Sandor was paralysed by raw fear. However, the man’s intentions were only focussed on wearing his belongings. With a spell, he also changed his face taking Sandor’s form. Only then Sandor could conclude that the Black Ring members were executing a plan to impersonate him. But for what purpose, it was impossible to guess.

_ I used to wear these crappy robes too, _ the man said with the most twisted smile he could draw on his face.

But the moment was abruptly interrupted by massive explosions heard from afar, getting closer and closer to the cottage. The sect members started to shout at one another.

_ Damn Aywyn, he must be mad. _

_ We got the Leader's toy first, he should accept he lost. _

_ Are you serious? Are you asking him to be fair? _

_ We need to stop him, he is going to bomb us all. _

_ No time for that. We got what the master asked. Leave now. _

Another man looked through the window and rushed into the mirror, ordering an immediate evacuation. The bombs were not conventional ones. The revelation hit them all when _ Deathfog _ started to leak down the door. 

Unaware of it until it was too late, the man who was wearing Sandor's clothes was caught by the _Deathfog_. It burnt his legs first, and then fell on the ground, breathing it immediately. He choked to death, compressing his back against the cottage's door while his hands, boiling under the caustic effect of the fog, were extended in the air, towards Sandor, looking for his useless help. 

The rest of the living members rushed across the mirror. 

Terrified, restrained, and collared, unable to run or cast winds, Sandor rolled on the floor, escaping by a hair from the unstoppable spread of the deadly mist. One of the undead members grabbed him by his hair and carelessly threw him into the mirror. 

He landed on hard ground on the other side from which he watched the undead walking calmly across the room filled with _ Deathfog _ , while several of his fellows pulled and pushed each other to reach the mirror surface. Three of them got stuck in its border, desperate to pass through it first while the _ Deathfog _ kept spreading at their backs. The undead, exasperated, snapped his bony fingers and closed the mirror portal, slashing his stuck fellows in two. Sandor gasped as the halves of their bodies fell on the ground close to him, their faces contracted in despair. 

The memory was cut off and continued with an old man of grey hair torturing Sandor, purging him and manipulating his Source in a way that revolted Malady; she could feel the stress and pain reverberating in her own Source core. She did not need to see more, she got her answers.

After a long sigh and a moment to recover from the lingering emotions still echoing in her body, Malady opened her eyes. She wickedly smiled at Sandor and pinched his cheek. “You are such a good boy. Mama Malady is proud of you, even though you should have accepted Divinity when you had the chance, and do not waste it in this man's hands.” She glimpsed at Ifan. 

Ifan ignored her eyes, “What did you see?”

The expectation of everyone to solve the mystery was easily perceived in the air. Malady explained what she had seen, confirming that Sandor had never died, and Gregorio had been his identity while his mind was trapped in that self-blocking spell. A wise decision given his powerful Source.

Ifan smiled, and his eyes glinted in a pleasant shock. Tears falling from his eyes, he surrounded Sandor in a tight embrace, snuggling in his neck. Then, he kissed him desperately, endless pecks on his head, his temples, his ears, his neck, his cheeks, his lips. Ifan was euphoric, not knowing how to express the storm of joy that such narration had triggered. 

Malady smiled, hiding parts of what she had seen. There was no point in explaining how Sandor fell into a Black Ring laboratory and had been subject to the most terrible process to become one of the new Gheists. His flesh had engraved each details, all the trauma and the madness infused with the torture. She also kept for herself that infinite sadness that Sandor felt and crystallised in his flesh when, knowing his fate and the danger he would represent as a Gheist, decided to block his own existence as his chances of survival were reduced drastically. It had been a huge silent gesture of heroism, one of those that never appears in History books. A Gheist with Sandor's power would have torn apart the Veil that separates the worlds with a single flick of his hand. 

It was good to see that, at least something small as Sandor, had turned out well, after all. He had survived several hells; he deserved a bit of rest now. So, content, Malady invited everyone to leave Tarquin's studio and give those two some time alone. They owed themselves a lot of words and emotions. 

* * *

Sandor sat on the edge of Ifan's bed, observing the man closing the door and beaming at him, all pointy teeth. Gently, Ifan took place by his side, and his eyes ran all over Sandor's face. It was as if the man were observing a dream come true. 

Sandor placed his hand on Ifan's arm and leisurely moved it down to find his hand. He held it, observing with worried eyes its compulsive trembling. He had noticed this condition when he was in the cage, but only now, in the privacy of a room, he dared questioning it. 

“What happens with your hands?”

Ifan clicked his tongue, the daydreaming charm broke at that moment. “Drudanae.” His voice had a small inflection of shame. 

Sandor closed his eyes forcing himself to remember his healing knowledge. Then, he inspected Ifan's eyes, pressing gently his eyelids to keep them open and see his pupil. “For how long have you been abusing it?”

“Since your death.”

Sandor winced, his hand lazily sliding along Ifan's cheek to stop on his chest. He was the only one to blame for this disaster. His stubbornness with the black mirror made him end like a silent monk and hurt Ifan deeply. 

“I'm so, so, so sorry.” Sandor averted his look. With his chin lowered, he held Ifan's trembling hands, and a gentle cast of magic penetrated Ifan's skin, calming the compulsive movement over the seconds. “I-I... I hated to keep the _ Deathfog _ tank as a secret. But I insisted on building a safe system to contain it in case of an accident. I was thinking in all possibilities, and making it safe. You have to believe me.”

Ifan scoffed, “It doesn't matter anymore, Sandy. That was three years ago. Arx doesn't exist anymore either. And losing you... that was worse than the secret. Too much worse.”

Sandor shook his head, observing Ifan's hands getting more and more relaxed with the soothing spell pouring into them. “To me it was yesterday. I knew I was crossing your limit, yet I kept pushing. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me,” He raised his eyes despite the terrifying predatory look now present in them, “I won't do that again. I will not conceal such things from you anymore. Can you forgive me?”

Ifan bit his lip, smiling, “I've been all these years asking _ you _ forgiveness. I was too hard on you. I should have trusted you. But... the whole situation reminded me when I knew that Lucian had been the one ordering to drop _ Deathfog _ in the forest...”

“I noticed that later. My actions shared so much likeness to his. I pushed you beyond your own limits.” He sighed. “Can you forgive me?” He repeated. 

Ifan left a peck in his lips and smiled. “Only if you forgive me too.”

Sandor smiled back at him, squeezing Ifan's hands—now completely steady. Curious, Ifan extended his arms in the air and moved his fingers. The movement was clean.

“In order to deal with the addiction, you need to stop smoking. _ Permanently _. If you feel anxious, tell me, I can use this spell to calm you down. The first two weeks of abstinence will be the hardest.”

“Are you fine using your Source?”

“I _ need _ to use it. All those years without Source… My pool has expanded too much. I need to avoid being full for some time. I don't feel strong enough to keep it stable. I have to adapt myself to this new… _ massive _amount.” Sandor sighed, worry transparent on his face.

“Alright then, I’m fine with that. So now I can get addicted to _ other _ things,” Ifan said playfully, kissing Sandor's jaw and nuzzling in his neck stealing him a smile. 

Sandor chuckled as his body tensed. Noticing this, Ifan drew back and looked at him. “What's wrong?”

Sandor's eyes met his for a moment, landing on Ifan's lap immediately, as if he were ashamed of his own thoughts. “My memories as Gregorio... They will return and blend with my own after some time. By now, I can't remember anything of that recent period of time. But... well... Three years. And you... you thought I was dead,” His voice quivered as his eyes looked aside, “By any chance... you... you and Lysanthir now... you know. Do you have something going on between you two?”

Ifan smiled mischievously. “Jealous?”

Sandor shook his head, still avoiding eye contact. “I just... want to know... where... where I'm standing now.” He glimpsed at Ifan, “He was always interested in you. My death was... the best opportunity. And I understand… I just want to know-”

“No, Sandor. Yes, he tried. But I didn't want to. Your death... was too fresh. He is a good friend to me, and I could not feel the same for him. It wouldn't be fair for him in those terms. Besides, there was a man during that time anyways.”

Sandor blinked in surprise, “Another elven soldier?”

Ifan scoffed, “I know you think I have a thing with elves.”

“You _ do _ have,” Sandor smiled at him, lowering his eyes shortly afterwards. 

“No. Not this time. He is a human.”

Sandor’s shoulder hunched a bit more. “Is there a relationship between you two?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” 

Sandor swallowed, suddenly silent, probably torturing himself. Knowing that, Ifan embraced him and whispered in his ear, “His name is Gregorio.”

Sandor relaxed, softly hitting Ifan's chest for that gratuitous annoying moment. Then, a playful smile curved his lips, “Did you fall for me twice?”

Ifan tensed, scratching the back of his neck. “I wouldn't say _ fall _. It was... a bit raw. Casual thing.”

“Oh...”

“But I think Gregorio felt something during that time.” He placed his finger under his lip, pointing out the mark on his lip. “Six months after your death, it had disappeared completely. But it reappeared a couple of months ago. Nobody knew how it was possible…”

Sandor’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. I was the one falling twice. Worthy.” 

Sandor smiled warmly, and Ifan could not help but do the same. He still could not believe that the man in front of him was real. Once more his life took a wonderful turn while the world was falling apart. But then, as the memories came back, his smile faded and worry tensed his face.

“But...Truth be told, I'm worried about you when you recover those memories.”

“Why?”

Ifan hesitated. How to tell him that his past wounds and loss strongly resounded in that shared night, and to some degree, he had looked for selfish rewards in that strange relationship he had with the amnesic man? He had slept with him out of pity and also out of selfish need to consume scraps of his unreachable past. He had not, in fact, slept with Gregorio, but with what he thought it was an illusion of Sandor. And he had rejected Gregorio later, hurt and confused, after a night of rough use. That was the worst part of it all. Ifan had abandoned that bed the next morning, emphasising how he had discarded that used body that could not hold the illusion any longer. Worried, he wondered how such cruel action would affect Sandor now. How much of his image dearly held by Sandor , could be distorted and rejected. He truly regretted that night now more than ever.

“I'm not proud of what I did to Gregorio.”

Concern transparent on his face, Sandor frowned, “What did you do?”

Ifan winced, unsure of exposing such rawness. But after some seconds of silence, he took the courage to explain what had happened that night with some details. It was not easy to put into words how he had felt when he roughly used Gregorio, how he consumed him as long as the illusion of Sandor lasted, how much such situation had reached him emotionally to let that illusion take him later, charmed by its movements and sounds, so similar to the real Sandor's. And how shattering, despite all that similarity, was to find the broken image of Gregorio by his side, in the next morning, and not his beloved Sandor.

As concerned as Ifan, Sandor nodded while listening to his narration. He knew how much vulnerability Ifan could share with his partner in their intimacy. He had known Ifan for years, and he had made love with him in many ways to witness all his emotional range. To understand the situation was not a problem, it was to deal, eventually, with the consequences of what Gregorio perceived and felt that night, and how that would blend with his own memories, especially the traumatic ones.

That was Sandor's main fear. Could that night be easily mistaken by any other of his past? That would turn Ifan's touch into a complicated one to enjoy, as it had happened in the beginning of their relationship. If that was the case, they would need to start all over again what they had worked for years. 

Sandor sighed. For the moment, there was not much to do about it but to wait for recovering those memories to truly know what that night meant for him, praying that things would not break much. 

He smiled at Ifan, thumbing his cheek. He trusted in him, it could not have been _ that _ bad. And if something had been broken, they would work on it again. They were far from pure, spotless humans; sins and dirtiness and breakness had always marked their souls. They had been working for years, together, in healing each other. This was not going to be new, this could not be so much different than what it had always been. 

Sandor smiled, optimist for once in his life.

“At least I'm warned now.” Sandor tilted his head, mischievously, “I'm eager to remember.”

Ifan shyly smiled, blushing. “Do you?”

“I don’t think your concept of roughness is the same one as… mine,” Some of his facial muscles tensed, disgusted. He put his memories aside, “I think I must have enjoyed it. If I did, that is good news. Nothing better than nice memories to overlap the bad ones.” He leant against Ifan's chest and embraced his waist. With one hand, Ifan placed that long brittle hair behind Sandor's ear and kissed his head, hugging him back. That silent moment was true peace. 

“How do you feel about me now?” Sandor said. 

Curious, Ifan drew back a bit and softly frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw myself in a mirror. I'm not what I used to be. I can't recognise myself in its reflection. My skin is a mess, my hair is proper of a Risen, my voice is...broken. My whole body is... just the bones. They stand out everywhere.” 

Sandor hid his face in the crook of Ifan's neck, receiving his embrace and accepting that kind rub of Ifan's palm on his back, which kept drawing big circles continuously. Ifan was quite aware of how many changes had happened in that body. Even those that Sandor could not even perceive, like his odd scent. That home-made bread scent was now an astringent smell proper of potions and burnt flesh. 

“And my eyes...” Sandor sniffed, taking a moment to recover. “Tarquin told me I'm now a Gheist. I'm a monster.”

“You are not, Sandy.”

“I look disgusting, gross. Scary.”

“So does my back. And you always caressed it.” 

Sandor took distance, accepting Ifan's hand on his cheek, his thumb caressing softly. 

“I also have new scars.” Ifan continued, “And drudanae made a big mess of me. I've changed a lot too. If you want, we can take some time to adapt, to learn each other's body again.” He nuzzled in Sandor's temple.

Sandor smiled. That sounded good. He moved to the centre of the bed, his legs crossed, and patted the mattress in front of him, inviting Ifan to sit there. With a mischievous smile, Ifan stood up and before following the suggestion, locked the door of the room. He removed his boots, and bare feet, he sat in front of Sandor, his legs extended at Sandor's sides. He would have preferred to be behind him, embracing him, resting his chin on Sandor's shoulder, but this was going to be another kind of moment, he guessed. 

“Would you mind starting now? Just for a brief moment.” Sandor asked, caressing Ifan's thighs. His stomach rumbled out of the blue; both looked at each other, surprised, and then laughed.

“A short session then, it seems your body finally feels hunger.” Ifan patted Sandor’s belly.

“Yes. It does.” Sandor scratched Ifan's knees over his pants, “Getting free of the block spell made me recover it, apparently. Tarquin doesn't know why, because... as a Gheist...” He looked down, running his palms all over Ifan's thighs, up and down, softly, “...as a Gheist I should be sustained by my own Source, but... something is not working.”

“Maybe… because you are not a Gheist.”

“The process was completed.”

“Well, you have your own will and your senses. Maybe you are now a super wizard,” _ with really scary eyes _, Ifan wanted to say, but he stopped. Sandor was already affected enough by his current unnatural looking. 

Sandor smiled, his sight still down, fixated on Ifan's knee. Ifan slid his hip closer, helping Sandor to spread his crossed legs and give him more room to approach him. Sitting face to face, with each other's legs around the other, Sandor moved his fingers from Ifan's waist to his neck, untying the lace of his casual shirt, slowly. Ifan could not stop observing him in delight, a silly smile stuck on his face. 

Pulling the shirt over Ifan's head, Sandor observed that torso. The same amount of necklaces were wrapped around his neck, and some hair on his arms were now greyer. He had lost weight too, as everyone does during war times. 

Sandor ran his hand down the middle of Ifan's pectorals. He could identify many new scars on Ifan's stomach and sides, most of them as the result of his suicidal attempt against the army of Voidwoken and Lizards. The amulet did not have enough time to heal the first wave of wounds that new ones put Ifan's life at risk again. The result was a lot of bad healed wounds that, despite the surge of Source that Sandor poured into his body afterwards, sealed them with scars.

“Certainly there are many new ones. But nothing changed much.” Sandor whispered, letting his hand fall by his side. 

Chin lowered, hands on the mattress, Sandor awaited Ifan to take his turn. Carefully, Ifan approached his face, looking for Sandor's lips and kissed him, enjoying that effervescence that never ceased to appear in his belly when he kissed him. 

The wizard's nervous fingers timidly raised from the mattress to his cheek, scratching Ifan's beard, finding a certain degree of relaxation in the gesture. 

With a warm smile, Ifan started to unbutton Sandor's shirt, but the wizard's hands grabbed his wrist in a jerk and looked aside with wet eyes. 

Worried, Ifan did not move, “Want me to stop? Remember I saw you already, in the cage. If that helps.”

Sandor squeezed those writs, “It’s not the same, this close. This body is such a mess.” 

Quiet, both remained in that position for a moment. Then, Sandor released Ifan’s wrists and, with a flick of his hand, extinguished all the candles of the room, submerging both of them in darkness. Although it was still afternoon, and light should come from the small top windows of the room, the short days of a crumbling world turned the noon skies into permanent nights. 

The only way to distinguish day from night hours was the presence of the moon. Somehow, that celestial body still was effectively avoiding the end of the world. So it was expected that moonless afternoons could not offer a gentle light to illuminate the room without candles. Making use of his still low-- and for that reason manageable-- levels of Source, Sandor cast small wisps of Source that emerged from his body and floated in the air, filling the environment with an ephemeral, mystical beauty.

Fascinated, Ifan smiled at the fantastical atmosphere that Sandor had crafted around them. “Can I continue?” He whispered.

Sandor nodded, allowing him to remove his shirt. 

Ifan looked at that torso, heavily taken by that strange skin condition that made it look boiled and burnt. Sandor's old scars on his pectoral and collarbone were unable to be identified due to many lumps of twisted flesh emerging everywhere. The place where the elven mark should be, had only a dark shadow of what could be considered three strips, deformed by its chaotic texture. The diffuse light of the wisps helped to smooth the appearance of the skin, hiding its gross looking that, with the candles, could only project dark holes everywhere.

“Does it hurt?” Ifan asked before touching.

Sandor shook his head. “It's numbed. It's almost as if any touch there could be barely noted. But it's... so gross.”

Ifan lowered his face and kissed that skin, leaving long trails of pecks and licks. It felt coarse. Then, bare chest, they remained embraced, enjoying something that both always loved: the wonderful, unique feeling of skin contact despite numbness and scars. 

There was something deeply special in human skin, Ifan thought. The contact with the clothes in between was not the same. The skin allowed the soft characteristic scent of the other to rise from its surface thanks to the caresses and reach the partner's nose, enjoying the deep intimacy of the moment. Skin had always a personal texture; its softness or hardness was always a testament of the kind of life lived and imprinted on that body. Skin was a map, a book, thousands of stories written in each crook of the body; the accidents, the wounds, the lovers, the stabs, the betrayals. Everything was there, and despite the fact that it required an experienced reader to understand its details, it was always easy to touch and to try to reach its secrets beneath. The whole past of a person at the range of fingertips. 

“There is nothing stronger than a broken person who has rebuilt themselves.” Ifan whispered.

Sandor hummed, sarcastically. “Look who is saying silly inspirational sentences proper of a book.” 

Ifan frowned without breaking the embrace. He had just perceived those small drops of poison that sometimes emerged from Sandor's words.

“How many times can you break yourself until you cannot be fixed anymore? Your words are a nice concept in a novel. But our bodies are made of flesh, our minds have limits.” Sandor whispered, curling inside the contact and squeezing Ifan's waist.

Ifan sighed, rubbing Sandor's back with his warm palm, “Still, no other way to go than forward, than to keep rebuilding.”

Sandor left a peck on Ifan's neck and remained there, letting the time slip and the wisps float around, while sharing their body warmth in silence. 

Only then, more relaxed thanks to Ifan's acceptance, Sandor could distinguish a different glow in the corner of the room. Commanding some wisps to illuminate that place, he realised it was his staff, leaning against the wall. 

"Did you keep my staff?"

Lazily, deeply lost in the pleasure of the embrace, Ifan took his time to release Sandor's body and turn to his back to see the corner faintly illuminated by the wisps. "Ah, _ that _. Yes." He nuzzled in Sandor's neck. "After your death, we raised a monument in the academy entrance. Your staff was part of it. After the Fall of Arx, I only could retrieve it in our last mission. It was the only thing this world had of your presence. Your grave, or what I thought it was, had been desecrated by Voidwoken time ago."

“Yes, Tarquin told me about how we lost Arx, briefly. But my house should still be there. It had a thick Source shield protection. It-”

“It crumbled. I... I destroyed it fighting the Voidwoken. I drained its Source.”

Sandor remained silent for a moment, and then he released a sigh. All his books, his research, his robes; everything lost. “ Was your life saved by it?”

Ifan scoffed. “Hard to say. But I guess. At least at that moment. Later on, I... I died defending Arx, buying time with some comrades so the exile groups could head to the Keep. It was a disaster."

Immediately, as if the embrace were burning, Sandor drew back, frowning. All the wisps in the room agitated for a moment. “You died!?”

“Well, almost. Or maybe I did. Lysanthir said I did. I don’t know. This was what helped me to come back.” Ifan took the amulet from his usual bunch of necklaces and left it suspended in the air. 

Sandor smiled. Some wisps approached it to illuminate the cracked surface of the blue gem, dark and dead. “Ah, it worked then.”

“Several times. Not only in Arx exodus. When the Keep was assaulted by the second time, I was the last man standing against the enemy waves thanks to this, until it totally broke.”

Putting some distance between their bodies, Sandor held the amulet in his hands, slowly infusing his Source in it. Despite being careful, he had to cut down the process twice, for his Source, still recovering, was too weak for the effort. Slowly, the cracks of the gem disappeared, and its dark colour turned once again into a vivid and vibrant blue. Ifan blinked, surprised.

“This gem is unique. A rare one. It's called Dragon Tear, too coveted among mages and wizards. It does what it showed you; contains a huge amount of power poured into it, and releases it under certain circumstances. It was broken. Usually, it heals by itself, given the time, or you can heal it as I've just done, as if it were living flesh. When we found it in the Prophet monument (*), it had been severely burnt. I healed it back then, and slowly, I've been adding more Source into it in each opportunity I had.” Sandor said, smiling, cupping Ifan’s cheek. “Nothing I've done before has ever been so important.”

Ifan blushed slightly, “You had always had all of this planned?”

Sandor shrugged, “My strength was never in the fights.”

Ifan chuckled, happy and seduced by Sandor’s dangerous sharp mind.

They gently kissed once more, until Sandor’s stomach rumbled again, this time longer and louder. They laughed at the sound and decided to have lunch. They still had a lot to talk about to catch-up.

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Anti-Source cage** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3779)]: Cage like the one in which Windego (*) was jailed by the fourth act of the game. 

**Covenant ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/quest/the-covenant/) ]: Magical pact. Those who accept it become _ 'Sworn' _, agents of death, and must serve the God King in perpetuity, even beyond death. This pact can be destroyed individually by using the Swornbreaker, a one-use scythe.

**Prophet monument** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/others-reapers-coast/#3115) ]: Monument of the Prophet Patryk that you find in the Reaper’s Coast. It warns you about the use of fire in-game and gives you an amulet (sometimes) as a reward. Related to the Quest [ The Burning Prophet ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/quest/the-burning-prophet/). In the previous fic, The Search of Divinity, Sandor gave this amulet to Ifan without telling him how powerful it was. 

**Swornbreaker ** [ [ Divinity: Original SinII ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/unique-items-arx/#3936)]: One-use scythe that can break the Covenant oath.

**Windego ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Windego)]: Sworn old lady sourcerer that was tasked with destroying the Godwoken. 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

A couple of days after the commotion of Sandor's return, everyone gathered around the main table of the council room with the intention to discuss the next steps to take. 

“So, how did the meeting with the Weaver of Time (*) go?” Gareth said, folding his hands and resting his elbows on the table. 

“Complicated.” Malady tossed her hair in the air and crossed her arms, “She has been hiding in the edges of time itself to avoid the Child of Pandemonium. But thanks to Arhu and his deep knowledge of timeless planes, we could reach her. In short, she will give us her strength, but we can speak to her again only when we have all the pieces together and an outline of a plan. Otherwise, we risk her life, and for that same reason, the existence of the many worlds. We cannot afford to lose her as we did with Zixzax.”

Gareth nodded, “So, to sum up, the last powerful piece we need to look for is Zandalor (*). Thanks to Luci- um… It’s good to have recently recovered a friend that we had thought lost.” He smiled, his warm eyes directed to Sandor. 

For the first time in three years, Sandor was with them around that table. Ifan had cut Sandor's dry hair in his old style; a long fringe by a side, covering most of the time his right eye, while the other side, shorter, exposed his white pupil-constricted eye. It had been a small detail to recover a certain degree of an illusory normality. Nothing was normal anymore. Nor his hair, nor his body, nor his eyes. But Ifan had suggested to him to return to his old fashion anyway, as a way to gather confidence once more, even though the changes were too deep to ignore easily.

“An old friend, and more powerful than before.” Gareth added.

Sandor looked down, pressing his lips in a thin line.  _ Now with Gheist powers _ , he heard behind those words.

“Give me some time to arrange the spell that protects the Keep, to make it last longer, and I will look for Zandalor alone.” Arhu said.

“You can give us the coordinates, and I can send some powerful Guard-”

Arhu laughed, shaking a finger at Gareth. “Zandalor is an old friend of mine. And he trusted me his resting location. It’s not easy to go into it, it is surrounded by several defensive traps. Only I can pass through them safely and awake him.”

Malady looked at Sandor, “Meanwhile, we have much work to do. You truly need to unlock your powers. Some of the most important pieces of our original plan were…  _ lost. _ But your return is unexpected good news, indeed. We need you to become  _ more _ powerful. It's the least you can do. After all, you have the responsibility of losing Divinity. I hope you keep that in mind.”

Ifan frowned. “Hey, he just awoke days ago, he is still weak.”

Malady snapped her head at Ifan. “Are you sure you do understand what kind of situation we are into? We don’t have time to rest and recover. You, as much responsible for losing Divinity as he is, should help him to unlock his powers. Train him.”

Ifan's eyes fell upon Sandor and his now thin constitution. His long ony fingers were resting on the table. He had no idea how to train that fragile body. What Sandor needed first and foremost was to eat _ a lot _ to recover his body mass. 

“It pains me to say it but... Malady is right.” Gareth added. “We are not sure if we can use the trick of the elves soon again. All of them are still recovering. Lysanthir is the only one stubborn enough to keep walking around, but he should be resting most of the time. We lost the imp Zixzax and we never found the ancient dragon Vacca, so we truly need your powers, Sandor. Especially now that… that Tarquin said you are... a  _ Gheist _ .” He almost whispered the last word.

Sandor nodded silently, looking down. 

“And Fane will join us soon,” Gareth added, “He has just sent a war owl, asking us to give him a lift.”

Malady raised an eyebrow, “My, does he want a chauffeur now?”

Gareth chuckled, “He said he has important information that needs our attention immediately.”

“And where is he?” 

“In the Eastern of the Mezd desert, in the Deadland, close to Ataraxia.”

Ifan frowned, “It’s nonsense to send  _ there _ the only flying means we have. That zone is highly under control of the Lizards and Voidwoken.”

“Exactly for that reason, he asked for help. He claims to have vital information that can't be sent via war owls; it would be a danger if Lizards know we are aware of it.”

Ifan shook his head, “Well, I'll send a group of Guardians led by DeSelby, with a mage who can cast invisibility on the ship. We need to be extremely careful when flying over that zone.”

Malady sighed aloud, and clapped once, rubbing her palms, “So, for a few days, everything is settled. Let's make some work.

* * *

During the first week, Tarquin and Infirma shared with Sandor the advances made in their research during the last three years. Tarquin had done indeed a colossal work in understanding the Source, the Source cores of the Sourcerers, and the different ways to craft silent monks. Although the amount of information was huge to handle, Sandor did not seem to struggle. Somehow, deep down, he could perceive that all that information had always been there, in his mind, under the thick layer of obscured memories that the name of Gregorio embodied. And slowly, scraps of those memories came back. Especially the ones related to the studio itself.

He remembered the despair of awakening there, lost in an ocean of blackness, only hearing voices of strangers. The stress and pain that Tarquin had submitted him to heal and wake his senses, the hours of silent standing in a corner of the room, listening to Infirma and Tarquin exchange ideas, and how, shyly, he had started to participate in them as the sudden knowledge emerged out of the blue in his mind. The thousands of ill and wounded that had walked across that studio. The day he opened his eyes and saw everything. There were many memories missing yet, which probably would blend with his own in the following days, or maybe they would be lost forever. Only time could say it. 

That day, Sandor was browsing Tarquin's desk, skimming all the books piled up on it. In a corner, below several books, he spotted a journal that recognized immediately. He frowned, wondering if maybe his mind was playing a trick with him. That journal could not be there, because it had always been in his house, now lost under the strength of the Swarm. Without second thoughts, he took the notebook and opened it, reading what he was expecting: Das Vapour's reports about his subject Sandor detailing the procedures that a child should be under to become an unstable Sourcerer. 

He closed the journal, terrified, and looked at Tarquin across the studio, who was working on some potions. He called him and discreetly tapped on the cover of that journal.  Understanding the sign code, Tarquin left the potion brew and walked to his desk. 

“Did you read this?” A silly question that Sandor could not avoid to ask. It was hard to start the topic anyway.

“Uh. Indeed. I daresay that I know what kind of questions are crossing your mind in this precise moment.” Tarquin sighed, slightly uneasy, a rare attitude in the necromancer, “Let me explain, my friend. You were  _ dead. _ I was not aware of the existence of such reports until Ifan gave them to me. No, it was not soon after your apparent death. He took his time in providing them to me. He considered that they contained useful information to heal silent monks. And it had. I recovered your senses thanks to them, in part.” He gently pushed the cover of the book against Sandor's chest. “If it makes you feel better, I was the only one who read it. And I did not say a word to anyone.”

Sandor held the journal with both hands, feeling its rugged cover against his robe. “It's not as if it could... change anything. It's just... that... I... ”

“That past belongs to you and no one else is entitled to use it in any fashion. I only acquired the knowledge about Source within it, and I already poured it in my own journal. I will give you a copy if you want to, in order to provide you a bit of peace of mind, if needed. It only collects my whole understanding of the Source. Nothing from the mere technicality is written there, I promise. If that counts for something.”

Sandor remained silent, conflicted by the fact that now, another person besides Ifan knew about his past. But he could not blame neither Tarquin nor Ifan about this. It had been the most sensible action to take during those terrifying times. He would have done exactly the same in their places. 

Tarquin cleared his throat, “I... I did not have a beautiful childhood either, Sandor. We live in Rivellon, after all. I am not shocked by what I have read. You see, my family was extremely poor. And I was born too ill. In fact, I never had a gifted health. To survive, I had to do things I'm not proud of, but they helped me to learn until I could ask for an allowance in the academy. And from there, I was my own man. Academy is annoying yet sometimes, it is the only place where you can aspire to rescue yourself.”

Sandor half smiled. “Did you rescue yourself?”

Tarquin tapped his chin with his fingers. “If you take my old tutors' words, I was a young man overtaken by dark ambitions and heretical thoughts, prone to corruption, and unable to manage limits. They would never think that I've been saved. But I did, indeed.”

Sandor chuckled, “Well, you  _ do _ have problems with limits.”

“Says the man who put a  _ Deathfog _ tank in the middle of the city which had banned it.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Touché,” Then he hugged the book against his chest, more relaxed, “Thank you.” He sighed, “So, you studied my Source from this cursed journal. Some conclusion worth sharing?”

“I believe you also arrived at the same worrying conclusion than me, don't you?  _ The endless cycle _ .”

Sandor looked down, silent. 

“Your Source pool expands when you hold Source without blasting. After each blast, drained, your rate of recovery increases, filling your pool faster and faster. To stop such a process, you need to use those restriction devices. However, they don't  _ stop _ anything per se. Restraining Source in that way also increases the pool. All these mechanisms are self-fed. You were conditioned to keep on this cycle, forever. I wonder how long you can keep extending your pool or your recovery rate. After all, you are human, made of flesh. And flesh has limits.”

Sandor had been thinking on this matter a long time ago before being captured. He remembered to have experimented with it, before a void dragon attacked Arx. With that event he became sure about how his Source worked. It was a fact that it was going to be wilder with every blast. But so far, the endless cycle had always been his most omitted thought. That another scholar would have arrived at the same conclusion, worried him. It meant that there was no other perspective on the matter. 

“Well, now I’m a  _ Gheist. _ That must have changed things a little bit, don't you think?” Sandor was not convinced of his own words.

With a knowing look towards Sandor, Tarquin smirked, as if he were aware of all what the recovered man wanted to conceal, “Indeed, my friend. Indeed.”

Sandor held the book a bit apart from him and burned it with fire emerging from his palms. The fire sometimes increased its intensity drastically and sometimes almost extinguished, while Sandor's focus was tensing all his muscles. The Source at his disposal was colossal, and reducing a book to ashes required absolute concentration not to end up burning the whole studio.

Once finished, Sandor clapped, cleaning any ash residue from his hands. Leaving Tarquin to continue with his work, he approached Infirma's desk. Her set of flasks and jars were arranged on it, and some test tubes were over alcohol burners, boiling slowly. Steam raised over a beaker, and several barometers kept moving their needles around the same number.

Infirma invited him to join her second desk where the black mirror and its replica were laying on, side by side. She wanted to show him the results of her alchemy on the artefacts. Since she had recovered the black mirror from the cottage, most of her treatment had been well received by the objects. Certainly, to know what had happened in that forest house gave her enough clues to attempt another preparation in order to make the mirror functional again. 

During the previous days, she was able to link the original black mirror with the dark replica, but she had struggled with the latter, which remained unresponsive. Only thanks to Sandor’s help in providing Source to the replica, she was finally reaching the best conditions for her alchemy to work. And that day had finally reached. She looked at Sandor with a big expecting smile and rubbed the  _ Deathfog _ -based potion on their surfaces. It was then, when for the first time, both surfaces reflected the other side.

Cautious, Infirma threw a ball of crumpled paper into one of them, and surprisingly, it started to bounce between both mirrors. The ball kept going into one, to go out from the other, reaching a considerable height until gravity, doing its work, would stop its momentum and make it fall again into the mirror. The process kept repeating endlessly, with the friction of the air as the only force eroding the energy of the ball.

Sandor clapped happily, while Infirma indulged herself into a long squeak. Tarquin frowned at them, curious by that fuss, and approached the desk. He hummed in recognition and approval for the feat. The safe connection between the black mirror and its replica was now another undeniable good news to give to the Guardians.

“I can't believe this! You did it, Infirma!” Sandor said, bowing before her in the most formal Balurik fashion. 

“A great accomplishment, indeed. But you are part of this as well… you got a good eye. Nobody would have wanted a  _ Deathfog _ professional working for it.” Infirma said.

“I have no credits on this. It was more like a desperate last resource. If nothing else would make the mirror react, I had to try with the less likely hypothesis.” 

“Anyway, you did well in choosing me.”

Both chuckled. 

After the moment of success passed by, Sandor tapped his chin with two fingers and frowned, looking at Infirma, “But I can't help but think  _ how _ . How it's possible that  _ Deathfog _ could... work in restoring anything? Your potions to delay the Source flickering worked more as stopping a process of decay, which makes more sense for the nature of such a compound. But restoring or healing through it...”

“Well, I used to have no answer for that, not even a guess. But, since I've been working for so long with Tarquin and we learnt about these creatures, the Nadaer, the great creators, the great restorers; I kept wondering about them and their relationship with the  _ Deathfog. _ ”

Sandor blinked, “Are you suggesting that Nadaers (*) crafted the  _ Deathfog _ ?”

Infirma shook her head, “No,  _ Deathfog _ is a recent invention. If the tale about the Empress Anatelle (*) is real, and that was the first time this dimension met a Nadaer, the  _ Deathfog _ should have been invented soon after that. But it didn’t happen that way. So I think it has to be related to the God King as well. After all, the Voidwoken problem and the development of the  _ Deathfog. _ .. seem to be close in time one another.”

Sandor scratched his chin, looking aside, “But, the  _ Deathfog _ abuse during the War was part of Lucian's main plan, to weaken the Seven and close the Veil. He proceeded in a questionable way but... he was no ally of the God King. Quite on the contrary. ”

“Yes. I'm not saying otherwise. But maybe someone else developed the  _ Deathfog _ for another reason, and Lucian found it useful for his purposes. I mean, the God King always benefits from massive death, especially the one caused by the  _ Deathfog. _ The spirits are traumatised, so they are easy prey to take and convince them to be part of the Covenant.”

Sandor hummed, “So, the corrupted essence of Nadaer that resides in the God King was used to craft the deadly mist to increase their army?”

“It's an hypothesis. Still, I wonder who would have done that. It requires quite a unique genius.  _ Deathfog _ is an incredibly complex substance and yet, stable. It's not easy to accomplish that, especially when you are manipulating compounds from another dimension.” 

The thought was disturbing indeed.

In the middle of their discussion, Ifan entered the studio, smiling at the sight of Sandor. He was still getting used to seeing him again, even though his shape had changed so much. He approached him, looking over his shoulder at what had got the dwarf and Sandor so happy and concentrated, and frowned. He saw the crumpled ball of paper bouncing between the surfaces of the mirrors on the desk. His face tensed. 

“Ifan, look! We did it!” Sandor extended his hand over the mirrors, as if he were presenting a marvellous child. 

Ifan hummed, his gesture grave, still disturbed by the ball disappearing and appearing over the mirrors.

“Came on,” Sandor softly hit Ifan's chest. “This could not be mastered in a more convenient time.”

Ifan sighed in a grunt, too loud and long to catch Tarquin’s attention, who turned wary of any aggressive response coming from him.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Ifan asked.

“It is. Just imagine the wonderful logistics we can use with this. Ifan, you are a tactician, aren't you? Do not tell me you don't see the undeniable potential of this.”

“The only potential I see here is the one I remember in Arx, with a  _ thing _ looking at us, and dark  _ things _ crawling out of it. Tarquin must have a warm memory of that potential.” He said, looking at the necromancer who smirked at him in acknowledgement of such a sarcastic remark.

“That ordeal happened because the mirror surface had been set in another dimension.” Sandor replied. “Arhu fixed that detail a long time ago.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and it was that what brought us all this mess of the Child, to begin with.” Ifan's hard look fell on Sandor. 

Sandor's enthusiasm was turned off, and his eyes avoided Ifan's. “Just trust in me.”

Ifan sighed again, tired. This was giving him a strong deja-vu he did not want to live again. So he calmed down and spoke in a softer manner, “Anyway, I don't see how just a pair of mirrors can help us.”

“We'll craft more.” Infirma said, “As many as needed to have every place in Rivellon covered.”

After a long silence that slowly deepened Ifan's frown, he spoke with a dubious tone, “An easy access to any place in Rivellon? But that will give the same advantage to the enemy.”

Sandor raised both his index fingers in the air, “Please, you wound me, what do you think of us? No. That's why I told you to trust in me,” he said, “Infirma and I realised that we can add a magical security system in them. Undead and Voidwoken will be disintegrated if they try to cross them. Our undead allies wouldn't be able to use this device, yes, but it will be safe for the rest of us... Just imagine, if things go wild, and the God King's army attacks different places at the same time, we will have the capacity to strike them down without wasting days in a flying machine to reach the places where they are hitting stronger. And if a fight goes out of control, Guardians will be able to retreat by just crossing the mirror, safe back to the Keep.  _ Surviving for another day to fight. _ As you always taught them.”

Ifan crossed his arms and looked once again at those mirrors. “You and your fucking honey words.”

Sandor smiled, proud of knowing that Ifan had finally seen the undeniable potential. 

“Of course, we'll test them before spreading them all over Rivellon.” Infirma said, just in case.

“Well, you have time to do your scholarly thing on them until the flying machine returns with Fane.” Ifan said.

Sandor nodded. “Fair enough.”

Then, Ifan looked at Infirma, his face softening. “I mainly came here because I wanted to ask you about your... growing potion. Is it something wrong with it? It’s not working. Our gardens are dead.”

“Without the Sun, it can’t do anything. It only speeds up the natural process.” Infirma pointed a glowing green tube on a burner. “It doesn’t replace the elements needed to grow.”

“What's the problem?” Sandor tilted his head, unaware of what they were discussing. 

Ifan rubbed his forehead and turned a bit to look straight into Sandor's disturbing eyes, “The food, that's the problem. Since the days have become shorter and now we have almost a permanent night, our vegetable garden that sustains the Keep is dying. Reserves are low. And the last trade roads have been taken by Voidwoken swarms in the last month.” Ifan shook his head, “Soldiers... they need to eat properly if we want them to fight hard.”

“Mn, indeed. Do we have seeds?” Sandor asked.

“Yes, but it's useless without the Sun if her potions can't do the trick. Lysanthir wanted to try some spells or something, but he is still too weak. He had been the one taking care of it before the last battle.”

“Still in bed?”

Ifan hummed, “He had been walking around before... But, you know, after the lick, his dizziness got worse.”

Sandor looked down, pressing his fist against his lips, thinking. Then, he met Ifan's eyes, “Bring him to the garden, and some seeds. I... I can try something.”

* * *

The effect of the red moon in the sky emphasised the dead look of the garden. Broad sections of ploughed soil had not a hint of emerging tender shoots, while the areas of fruit trees and young bushes were yellow and withered. The short exposure to the Sun had been palliated with Infirma’s concoctions that allowed the vegetables to maximise the use of the sun beams. But when the Sun completely stopped raising, the potion became useless. Nothing in Rivellon would replace the vital function of the Sun over the living creatures.

Ifan appeared accompanied by Lysanthir, helping him to walk slowly. His usually vibrant bark-like skin had now a grey undertone, emphasising a subtle ill aspect. Before that image, it occurred to Sandor that maybe the lack of Sun could affect elves more severely than to any other race. Maybe it was something to research later.

Carefully, Ifan helped Lysanthir to sit on a bench beside Sandor. The elf listed all the things he had been trying for months to maintain the garden, so Sandor would have a better idea about the situation. From a small bag he was carrying in his belt, Lysanthir took several boxes labelled with different vegetable names and gave them to him. 

Sandor walked to the ploughed ground, spread the seeds, and knelt in the middle of it with his hands deep into the loosened soil. He sighed and small moans escaped from his lips as the use of his Source became a struggle. Sweat started to run along his temples, his arms trembled while his fingers nailed into the ground, deeper and deeper, as intense cracks of Source glowed all over his skin. 

A soft rumble underground proved that the spell was working, moving the earth and bringing nutrients to the surface to feed the seeds. The soil of the field became wet. A warm breeze hit them all, and then, only then, the shoots started to break through the ground and raise. Sandor kept his focus, sometimes looping off his Source flux to contain an overwhelming amount that would trigger a blast and destroy the whole garden. Controlling his Source now felt as controlling a monster the size of the world itself.

After a moment, unable to continue, Sandor raised his arms and let thick tongues of Source emerge from his fingers, violently. He needed to burn his Source. As soon as Ifan perceived the incoming blast, he ran toward Sandor and grabbed his neck to drain and command part of his Source to the ground, as he had always done. The amount was so enormous and rabid, that Ifan's hands burnt, and several cracking arcs of Source jumped out from Sandor to the ground, impossible to be controlled. 

When the event finished, both were panting, knelt on the ground. With worrying eyes, Ifan looked at Sandor who became extremely quiet and still. His squinted white eyes and wince in his face suggested that the wizard was in deep pain. Ifan touched his shoulder and a moan of pain made him recoil.

"Are you okay?" Ifan whispered. 

"Am I bleeding?"

Ifan looked down and around Sandor, no hint of blood could be seen. "I don't think so."

"I feel my whole body shredded."

Ifan helped him to get up and sit by Lysanthir's side, not without groans of pain coming from the wizard. The violent surge of Source had left intense Source ashes in every muscle of his body. He needed a moment to rest so he would cast a restorative spell on himself to ease the feeling a little bit. 

When Sandor calmed down the aggressive sensation wrapping his body, and looked at the field, he smiled deeply satisfied. He had finally found a way to make shoots grow, after all this time. It was as if this tragedy of being transformed into a monster now could have a purpose; a useful, noble purpose. Despite everything else, he had achieved it. He had managed to have enough Source to fight against his most core-limitations and make plants grow without the initial help of any geomancer. Sure, it was still far from being in total control of his unbalanced Source, but he had managed it quite well. The hardest part had been done already.

He looked upward at the protection dome covering the Keep. His Source had interfered with that magical shield for a brief moment, making it weaker on the top during some seconds. Sandor needed to be more careful from now on. Arhu was still in his journey to find Zandalor. That protective dome could not be damaged during his absence, since no other sourcerer in the Keep could reproduce such a powerful protective spell. 

“That's an ancient spell from mythical tales. How did you learn it?” Lysanthir said, a tired smile on his face.

“I've made my own version.” Sandor took Ifan's burnt palms and healed them slowly, never pouring too much Source at once. “You lent me that book of old Elven tales, time ago. Do you remember? I just figured out the procedure in its hidden symbols of its tales. Geomancy is strongly needed, and I never could use it properly. Now, despite consuming all my energy, it seems I could manage a bit of it.” He chuckled, enduring the pain of Source ashes in his ribs. It had been needed for him to become a Gheist, no less, to do it. 

“I can see it.” Lysanthir observed all the crops rising from the soil, surprised, “But, in those tales… the spell was usually cast by many, not only one person. It’s too much for one alone. Growing plants, all by yourself...” He did not conceal his worrying look, observing Sandor’s hands. Even though his skin had improved in comparison with Gregorio’s, the soft pulsating cracks glowing under it were a constant reminder of his new dangerous nature.

“It will be a good training.” Nervously smiling, Sandor looked at Ifan, ignoring Lysanthir’s obvious thoughts. 

When Sandor finished with Ifan's hands, Lysanthir took more seeds from the bag and gave them to Sandor. They still had several more sections of the vegetable garden to cover. Of course, Sandor could not repeat exactly the same process with the whole garden, but by prioritising the most nutritious and urgent ones, he made them ripen in minutes.

After long rests to stabilize his Source, Sandor could transform the almost dead garden in a dense green carpet with vast sections of bare soil where only seeds had been planted. Another day he would make them grow. For tonight, he had guaranteed the food of the Keep.

Considering their problem fixed for the moment, Ifan helped Lysanthir to return to his bed. Exhausted, Sandor remained on the vegetable garden bench, awaiting Ifan's return later. He could not move due to the heavy intensity of the Source ashes paralysing his muscles, but he was content with the results he was seeing. 

While Sandor was observing the garden with a shadow of a smile on his lips, from a corner of the fruit trees, he saw a shadow walking towards him. At first, he tensed, but as soon as he noted the elven figure, his painful body relaxed. That long white hair moving with the nocturnal breeze and those grey eyes fixed on him were unmistakable. 

“Mestre? Is that you?” A husky voice came from that figure. 

Sandor smiled. “Nyw. What are you doing here? I didn’t see you in the Keep all these days.”

The elf stopped by Sandor's side and crouched, so the human did not have to tense his neck looking upward. Nyw observed him with a cocked eyebrow, probably measuring his words.

“I had some differences with Tarquin, so I took a respire from him. However, I want to contribute to the Guardians, as I always did. Please, allow me such a wish. Let me convince Arhu to send me to awake Zandalor. I’m a true master of healing, you know it. If Zandalor requires intense healing I can provide it. And I can bring him here safe and sound. Arhu is, after all, more needed than me in these troublesome times.”

“Sadly, Arhu departed already,” Sandor frowned after a moment, when the pain receded a little bit, “Wait, how do you know about that? You weren't in the council.”

“Ouh... He left already?… What bad luck.” Nyw smiled.

In that moment, a projected shadow reached Aywyn's lap, who turned his face a bit, never removing his artificial smile from his face. Towering over him while the crackling torches around them made shadows tremble, Aywyn looked at Ifan. The man had the coldest green eyes he had ever seen, flashing in Source and hatred. 

Aywyn clenched his teeth in the smile, knowing that his rushed plan had already failed. But at the same time, he knew there were not many other possibilities. When he was raised once more from his own ashes, the dome had been set, making it impossible to leave the Keep without dying by the magical nature of the barrier. The only way out was to jump into dimensions, and who knew, maybe even accomplishing part of his new orders, killing that annoying cat-wizard and his ancient friend in the process. But the plan had been more challenging than he wanted it to be. The only chance was to use the amnesic man that had turned out to be the old Mestre. The only person in the whole Keep who was still unaware of his recently uncovered identity. But that was Sandor, the damned man who was never alone to catch. 

"My dear..." Aywyn said, looking at Ifan's hands which were holding a dagger and a sword. 

"What the hell. Weren't you dead?" Ifan said.

“Well, you didn't die either, did you?” The elf stood on his feet, towering over Ifan, looking down at him, as he had always done. He approached him, slowly, and ran his fingers along Ifan's cheek. With a jerk, Ifan slapped his arm and pointed the dagger against him.

"I was so sad when the Red King told me he had pierced your chest. But I didn't hear that you had accepted our King's proposal. Why would he grant life to a wolf that always bites the hand that feeds him? I wonder."

"Cut the shit." Ifan roared, "So, he was your contractor, right? The Red King. To destroy Saheila, to destroy Sandor."

"Oh, no,  _ this _ little ragged doll was not part of his contract.” He moved his hand towards Sandor, “More like my boss' toy. He wanted it alive, but I wanted to play with it for a while before sending him. Sadly, I couldn’t do as much as I would have liked it. A group of useless humans kidnapped it before I finished playing. They are so desperate to have my boss' favours." Aywyn looked at Sandor, squinting. "Now that I recall, it’s strange, I would have bet the  _ Deathfog _ bombs had got it killed. It should be dead, yet… here it is. What a fancy reunion, right?. We are all, technically, dead. Better for me, I wanted to craft a nice story with you, all blood and guilt and pleas," he turned towards Ifan, "And I wanted to share the details of it with you, under the moonlight,  _ Vhenan _ ."

Sandor frowned at the perversion of the elf's words. With the scraps of strength he could gather, Sandor walked away, resting his body weight on his staff. "What's happening here?"

"This is Aywyn. Or Nyw, or whatever." Ifan muttered. "He was the spy all this time."

Sandor's eyes opened wide, he looked at Nyw and Ifan alternatively. 

"Ohh, you talked to it about  _ us _ ." The elf's smile broadened, "I feel so honoured."

"Who is your boss?" Ifan said. 

Aywyn laughed, "The irony." He raised a hand so the sleeve of his tunic fell along his arm, exposing a tattoo of black concentric circles on his forearm. The Black Ring symbol. Ifan shook his head, tired. That man was sworn too. 

"I don't get it. I know you would do twisted things because that’s your crooked nasty taste, but to serve a crazy god like the God King? Really? I thought you were sick of the Mother Tree’s control over elves, why would you fall under the God King's control instead?"

"You wouldn't understand. I don't care who is the boss as long as I control my own choices,  _ Vehnan. _ "

Ifan shook his head. That man had always been so chaotic, so careless, and twisted. But he never thought he could reach this point. To be sworn just to satisfy his twisted whims and small revenges. "You are crazy. You always were, but now you went too far. I'll stop you. Now."

“I don't think you can.”

In a quick movement, Aywyn rushed towards Sandor, ready to slit his throat.

It was true, killing Sandor had nothing to do with destroying the key elements of their enemies to guarantee the God King's success, as he had been doing so far. But Aywyn never cared about any plan or order. He only was concerned in satisfying his own whims. Everything had to do with his pleasure, especially the one coming from torturing Ifan, from dragging him into despair once again. Somehow, Ifan had always been a source of deep pleasure for Aywyn. A pleasure that increased proportional to the harm that Ifan could sustain. He would never dare say it aloud, but Ifan was his personal addiction.

In the moment Aywyn stepped behind Sandor's back, ready to pull his hair and slide the blade along his neck, Ifan — faster than him — took his wrist, twisted it behind Aywyn's back, and stabbed him twice. Sandor took distance immediately while the elf hissed, letting out a long breathy moan. The moment did not last. Aywyn turned violently, kicking Ifan's groin and punched his nose. Ifan recoiled but pushed through. Seven years bearing that elf had hardened him to every physical pain.

“To think you used to cry for less.” Aywyn retrieved the dagger from his low back, and with a clean movement, he threw it at Sandor. Ifan gasped; his breathing stopped for a moment. This was Aywyn, a man that always got what he wanted.

Despite the pain of the Source ashes, Sandor could see the elf’s intention beforehand, so he moved his body enough to prevent the dagger from sinking in his heart. However, he could not dodge it completely. The blade stabbed his shoulder, and due to its violent momentum, part of the hilt sunk into Sandor's flesh. He cried out, falling on the ground; the impact was too much for his exhausted body to resist.

Furious, Ifan spit out the blood from his mouth and leaped at Aywyn. He kicked his knee and broke it. The bark-skin cracked and the elf’s leg bent in an unnatural way. Screaming on the ground, Aywyn cast a mist of poison around him, momentarily stopping Ifan’s attack. Poisoned, Ifan knelt on the ground, choking, crawling to stay away from that damn cloud. He growled, snarling at Aywyn. 

Protected by that mist, the elf took a flask of poison from his belt and poured it on his knee, nervous. He did not know how much time he could buy with that fog. So focused on Ifan's movements, Aywyn did not notice an intense bright coming from the corner of his eye. When it was so intense that he could not ignore it anymore, he snapped his head just in time to see a fireball. It hit him producing a chain explosion fed on by the poison mist surrounding him. 

Ifan looked at Sandor, surprised. Still on the ground, with his shoulder bleeding profusely, Sandor let his staff slip from his hands, as an overwhelming amount of Source urged him to blast. He curled on himself, his forehead touching the ground, groaning; all his focus on containing the hell of Source that would compromise the dome if it were released. But it was impossible to restrain it any longer. 

Ifan measured the situation in a fraction of a second. Aywyn was screaming, rolling on the ground, panicked, as the flames wrapped around his bark-like body. Sandor was panting, the cracks of Source brighter and brighter all over his skin, suffering the pain of the Source ashes while containing the monstrous release his body was demanding. 

Quicker as ever, Ifan ran to Sandor and grabbed his neck in a not so careful way, helping him to discharge a violent amount of Source into the ground. Ifan grunted as the action burned his hands with Source flames. Immediately afterwards, Ifan walked towards Aywyn and with a clean movement of his sword, he beheaded him. He was not going to wait for the fire to consume his bark-like body. However, not content with his mere death that had been proven useless before, he activated his spirit vision and looked around. 

Aywyn’s spirit was in front of him, serious, observing him in silence, waiting for what was obvious. Trying to put an end to the sworn deal, Ifan focused on dragging his soul and consuming its Source, but something was lopping off the process. Something invisible was hard to break. Aywyn's soul smirked.

With the resentment cultivated by years of neglect and gratuitous pain, Ifan insisted. He wanted to destroy that man once and for all, but something was protecting him. The sworn oath was hard to break. 

Snarling in rage, Ifan swore at him. Aywyn laughed openly and loudly, until his relaxed face stopped short, and his eyes opened wide in distress. Then, he screamed, desperate, and in a blink of an eye, his spirit was disintegrated. Behind the fainting green steam left by him, Ifan saw a couple of harrowing deadly white eyes of constricted pupils. They had consumed the last remnants of that twisted soul. Breathless and scared, Ifan’s heartbeat increased at the sight of those predatory eyes that now were looking at him. All his body screamed to run away.

Ashamed by such effect on Ifan, Sandor closed his eyes and turned his palms up, burning the excess of Source in the form of fire. Sworn oaths were impossible to break by a Godwoken, but nothing could resist the destructive power of a  _ Gheist. _ The  _ monster _ among monsters.

When the last bits of that twisted Source were wasted and the garden became deadly silent, they remained static in their places for a long moment, recovering their tired minds from the intensity of the moment. It was still hard for Ifan to be free of the paralysing fear that those eyes had inspired in him. He sighed, took a moment to stand up, and walked to Sandor, kneeling beside him. The wizard was looking at the ground. 

“Are you alright?” Ifan's voice came out tired and drowsy. 

Sandor nodded. Ashamed, he cupped Ifan's cheeks, hissing as the movement made the dagger on his shoulder sink deeper and healed Ifan's broken nose.

“Remove it, please.” He said once he finished and moved his body to give Ifan a better angle of his shoulder.

After a couple of sneezes, Ifan removed the dagger with a clean movement. Then, Sandor healed his own shoulder and leant his tired body against Ifan's chest, without looking at him again. In silence, Ifan hugged him. 

* * *

Hours later, a group of Guardians rushed into the vegetable garden to harvest the food and prepare one of the most opulent dinners they had in awhile. Having new means to prevent famine within the Keep was the best news they could give to their Guardians and gave them a morale boost more than needed. After the meal, Ifan and Sandor rested in the Keep's highest battlement, their favourite place that slowly, was bringing Gregorio's memories back into Sandor's. 

Sitting on the bench, Ifan was sniffing a leaf of drudanae. He had been clean for days, but not for that the intense need to take hints had receded. Sandor had suggested to him to keep it at bay with that trick. Just the smell of the leaves would be enough to control the anxiety of his addicted body. And so far, it had been working. 

“That man... was your partner once?” Sandor said out of the blue, touching Ifan's shoulder with his own, now healed. His body was still dealing with heavy residues of Source ashes, but his full stomach seemed to have soothed it. 

Ifan looked at the sky, the red waxing moon illuminating them. Several glowing cracks could be seen far away, among clouds. “I know. It’s impossible to believe, especially considering how Nueleth was. I have a terrible taste in men.” 

Sandor blinked, turning his face at Ifan. 

Realising his slip, he curved his lips in a wolfy smile, a bit ashamed of that mistake, and corrected his words after putting down the leaf. “ _ Elven _ .. men, I mean.” 

Both chuckled.

“No, you do have. Men in general. Whether they are useless fighters slipping and tumbling on ichor, or psychopaths.” Sandor got closer, resting his head on Ifan's shoulder and sneaking his hands to take Ifan's hand, tangling their fingers and resting them on his lap.

Ifan laughed openly, “You are right.” He nuzzled playfully in Sandor's head and left several pecks on his temple. Both looked at each other, smiling. 

“But jokes apart, that man was so... sick. I always wanted to erase his existence from my mind. You know, after the  _ Deathfog, _ I was in such bad shape. My mind was a mess, my life had no purpose, the guilt..." Ifan sighed after a pause, "Roost helped me to be a bit more alive and shoved me into this man. Aywyn. He was a cruel lad, but I liked the fact that an elf could treat me badly.” Sandor blinked. “I was the reason that elves could not escape in time. Or so I thought back then. You know, before knowing the truth… that I would have killed them anyway." He sniffed the leaf of drudanae a couple of times and continued, "Either way, I needed to be punished. And he liked to make people suffer. He was  _ the _ man...” He looked down at his own feet, remembering the prominent scars in his ankles. “The worst combination you can have.”

“But... you told me he was your partner, so... did you have feelings for him?”

Ifan tilted his head, looking at the moon in the sky. “At that time, I thought I had them. Now, I don't know. It was all about the guilt and the punishment. He liked to hurt me, to torture me, and I liked that. I  _ needed _ that. And that cycle became… um, an addiction. It's funny to think that I was too lost in drudanae when I met him for the first time, but he cleaned me by making me suffer the abstinence. His treatment was... punishing me for wanting to take hints. A lot of my scars are his doing.”

Sandor opened wide his disturbing white eyes. Although Ifan knew that gesture had been born from pure surprise, those constricted pupils made him look even more predatory and scary. Instinctively, Ifan looked away, his heartbeat sped up wrapped in fear. And only then, Sandor looked down, self-conscious of what he had done. He frowned. “Who in Rivellon heals an addiction by playing with the patient's abstinence?” Sandor whispered in total surprise.

“Well. He does... did. Good side of the story, I was able to deal with drudanae without renouncing completely to it... until now...” He lowered his face, ashamed, “I'm sorry... I've fallen too low.”

Sandor shook his head, looking at him again and caressing Ifan's cheek with the back of his fingers. “It's okay Ifan. It was too much. This world, the events in it, are too much. But we can deal with that now. Without hurting you.  _ Much _ .”

Ifan smiled and left a peck on Sandor's cheek. “The last scars I got from him, the last ones that made me say  _ enough _ , are in my ankles.” He lifted his pants a bit, and Sandor looked at that disgusting scar. A deep cut with a gross overgrowth of flesh around, as if it would have been cauterized. It surrounded the whole ankle, but the overgrowth was more prominent close to the heel. 

Sandor now could recognise that kind of scar. They were a well-known technique that dubious healers could perform to keep a stubborn patient in bed. But it was also a torture method that had deep emotional effects in people who valued his freedom. Cutting the main sinews of the body, paralysing the victim, just to heal them after a while and repeat the process again. The dependence developed with the healer was the most common result.

Sandor had seen those scars time ago. In fact, they were the first ones he had seen that night in the Black Bull, before observing Ifan's mistreated back. 

“I wanted to leave him. I needed it. I had had enough of him after more than seven years by his side.”

Sandor’s eyebrows shot up. “Seven...”

Ifan nodded sadly, “Seven years of a bloody hell. Seven years of pain and torture and healing just to give the wheel another turn. You see, he was a healer too, a great one. But twisted. He liked to heal the people he tortured... so he could torture them again.”

“Eww.”

“I told you... crooked and twisted to the bones.” He scoffed. “Literally. When I used to say or do something he didn't like it... well. He always made me learn the lesson. And I always accepted everything he gave me, because I needed it. The fact that he was an elf gave me a lot of guilt relief.” He smiled, touching his bandaged wrists. “Do you remember the story behind these?” Sandor nodded. “The bastard that always healed me was he. He liked to see me do that too, in front of him, while telling me his people suffered because of me.”

Sandor blinked, confused. Had he heard correctly? “Cutting your veins in front of him?” 

Ifan nodded, lost in the memory. “He kept saying I was the culprit of his people dying. Over and over and over.”

“But you told me he hated elves.”

“Yes.” Ifan’s narration could only confuse Sandor. That logic was so wrong. “He was just like that, choosing the sharpest words to stab you. And, somehow, they... they felt so right, back then... and now... I... I can't believe I was part of it.”

Far from understanding that sick dynamic, Sandor took Ifan's hand and kissed his fingers. It was better to stop thinking about that crazy man.

“The conclusion is obvious by now, indeed. You  _ truly _ have a terrible taste in men.” Sandor said.

Ifan smiled, teary eyes. “But I improved a bit, didn't I? Now I prefer the clumsy ones, covered in ichor.”

“Well, that can count as an improvement, considering the circumstances. They, indeed, can cast less harmful spells, but may produce a slight addiction to  _ tentacling _ magic.”

Ifan laughed, fiercely blushing. “For the Fallen, you remember that?”

“I do. It’s good to know that was not forgotten. It would have been a shame not to have that memory to remind you every time you make fun of my ocasional ichor-problems.”

“_Tentacling_. You've just said a word that doesn't exist. Your scholarly tongue will fall, won't it? What would your fellows say?”

Sandor elbowed him softly, receiving a caring embrace.

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Anatelle, Empress ** [Headcanon]: Empress of Rivellon around 32000AR, descendant of Emperor Sigurd, mage, and demon lover. She consumed the Nadaer called The Lady of Entropy, also known as The Queen, and due to the demonic essence present in the Empress’ body, the Nadaer was corrupted and Anatelle lost her sanity. This event seems to be the starting point of a Great War which wiped out Rivellon History from any book, leaving only unanswered questions.

**Nadaer III** : [Headcanon, used in the previous fic] To make this idea clear, I like to think that maybe _Deathfog_, which origin is not explained canonly, could be made of the essence of the God King, but not by him. We know it was crafted by mortals, during DOS2 time, not before. Hannag and Zanisima did not craft the _Deathfog _itself, but the devices that contain it. So the big mystery was always unresolved to me. And I, of course, made it up with headcanons.

**Weaver of Time** [  [ Divinity Original Sin  ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/End_of_Time) ] Entity living in the End of Times who chronicles History, taking a degree of control over time and History. She can weave stories and rewrite them.

**Zandalor** [  [ Lore in general, all Divinity games except DOS2  ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zandalor) ]: Ancient wizard of great importance in Rivellon. Friend of Arhu.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

Moving quickly, rushing steps were heard along the corridor followed by the slam of the council door. Tarquin stepped in, wearing a bright wicked smile on his face. Everyone jumped from their seats, some of them even with their weapons at the ready, and observed the hot red face of the always pale necromancer. A long pause was sustained, only filled with Tarquin’s panting until he finally could speak again.

“Stop everything! I discovered it! I did it!” Tarquin claimed in an overwhelmed tone of excitement.

“What?” Malady said.

“The reason for the weakening of the Source! This is so brilliant!” Tarquin rested his body against the door frame, breathed in and out several times to calm down, and scanned the room; an unfamiliar figure had caught his attention. It was an old man with white hair and beard, wearing glasses. Tarquin blinked, for a fraction of a second looked at Sandor who was by the stranger's side. His fellow nodded and Tarquin put a palm on his chest. “For the fallen, the great Zandalor (*)? Here?”

Arhu, by the other side of the ancient wizard, smiled at the necromancer, “I've just awoke him. Go easy on my friend.”

Quickly shaking his head, Tarquin cleaned his mind from any enthusiastic emotion and returned to his usual self. “Anyway, I am afraid that I must interrupt you with this news because it may be of the utmost importance.”

“Can't it wait? We are talking about logistics here.” Ifan said, a tone of annoyance tingeing his voice. 

“No. Let him speak.” Sandor said. He looked at Gareth who with a sigh of frustration allowed the interruption. 

“It will be short.” Tarquin added. At least those words brought some peace of mind to the rest of people who, too accustomed to Sandor’s endless explanations in the council meetings, were thanked that Tarquin was the one giving the news instead. “We all know the monoliths have been draining everyone's Source. At least, it had been a hypothesis all this time. Now, I can assure you that they do not only drain Source, but they have a collection system that allows the conduction of Source without loss along huge extensions.”

“We knew that already, didn’t we?” Gareth said, frowning. 

“Not  _ knowing _ as  _ being completely sure _ , but we had assumed that so far. However, now I can guarantee that those monoliths do not drain just for the sake of draining Rivellon's people. They store Source.”

Ifan frowned and Malady squinted. 

“I've found strong coincidences with certain container devices developed by Das Vapour's mind in his journals which are too similar to these monoliths to be ignored. The materials used, the geometry of the conductors to have almost no loss while transporting the Source, the patterns to stimulate the Source transportation and force it to go through the lines. Too many coincidences indeed.”

“But the monoliths have no storage devices in their bottom.” Sandor added.

“I assume they are underground; we did not excavate deep enough.” Tarquin said. “Monoliths are made of the same material of your shackles, Sandor. In yours, the Source keeps turning around the circumference geometry, helping you to manage its excess, while having it at your disposal in case of need. The underground lines follow the same structure. I daresay that they go down, and come back when its currents complete a whole turn. It is a mere hypothesis for now, of course, but it is an interesting one. The stored Source had to be used later for something. Maybe the Black Ring improved Das Vapour’s devices, allowing it to develop a Source network for all their mages to use, everywhere in Rivellon. It would be a waste of Source to simply send the drained energy to the ground. You did say that time ago... well, Gregorio did.”

Sandor nodded, remembering that scrap of memory. “So, this is why the Black Ring kept gathering Das Vapour's research. Not only to understand Source, but also to find a way to have easy access to it?”

Tarquin made a long pause before continuing, “This makes much sense. Although Divinity allowed us all to be Sorcerers, we are not equally stronger. The same must happen among the members of the Black Ring. They may have developed this to reinforce the power of his weakest individuals, while affecting their enemies with this annoying continuous draining that produces the Source flickering. This hypothesis also explains why some people had been experiencing the weakening process stronger than others, it depended on how long and close you are exposed to these monoliths. Do you remember all the Guardians living in the barracks? Behind the main room we found a monolith. The worst cases of Source weakening had always been among Guardians. Once we removed it, the Source of the fighters became a bit more stable, right?” 

Crossing his arms on the table, Sandor nodded in silence.

“After we removed that thing, we got a swarm. And there was no Arx anymore.” Ifan said, frequently looking at Sandor to measure the weight of Tarquin's words. Sandor's grave face forced him to take the matter more seriously.

“Ah, details.” Tarquin shrugged. 

“Maybe there is even a connection between the monoliths and the swarms.” Sandor tapped a finger on his chin, looking at the table’s surface, hiding his disturbing eyes from everyone. 

“What wonderful news. We have two, almost three factors consuming Rivellon's Source: the child of Pandemonium, approaching our dimension and wanting to consume the Veil — and everything else — , the demons pushing in from another realm, desperate to feed on people's energy through the dreams, and the monoliths.” Malady said, her chin resting on her folded fingers. “Do you know where those containers are? Should we look for them? Maybe they can be useful for our weak Guardians.”

“We should perform some excavations to be sure.” Tarquin said. 

Sandor pinched his own chin.“That will be a waste of resources we don’t have at the moment. If we do it, it will be blindly, without knowing how deep or how intricate those conduits may be. And the worse part is that most of the monoliths are in the middle of swarm areas. We’ll need groups of strong Guardians defending an excavation that will take days.”

“It’s the only lead we have. The fact that the swarm seems to focus around monoliths, is it not proof enough that the container has to be close?” Tarquin said. 

Sandor frowned, “Why? No. We have no proof that those Voidwoken are feeding on hypothetical containers placed around. Neither on the currents of Source beneath.” He looked at Ifan, who survived several times in the middle of a swarm, “Don't we?”

Ifan shook his head, a bit tired of listening to two scholars jabbering about hypotheses. Gareth, same as Malady, was as bored as Ifan. They preferred facts instead of mental exercises of  _ ifs _ and  _ maybes. _

“I have a decent proof of that.” Tarquin smirked at Sandor, “That time you fought the Void Dragon. Every damned creature turned to your direction when you released your Source. They were blindly looking for you, to consume you.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. Voidwoken are hungry by nature, so they look for Source to consume. Yet, they do not appear out of the blue at any manifestation of Source. We all know by now that such argument had always been an excuse for Lucian to abuse Sourcerers.”

“True. Not in any small manifestation they appear, but they do in the biggest ones. The bigger it is, the more crowded the swarm became.”

They remained in silence. Maybe Tarquin was right? 

“What about your Source, Sandor? You have been close to that monolith found in the barracks for a long time as well. It must have drained you a lot, and considering your ridiculous amount of Source, it had to be contained somewhere. What if the accumulation ended bringing the attention of the swarm?” Tarquin asked at Sandor, who a bit uncomfortable shook his head. 

“I can’t estimate how much I've been drained. I've never been particularly aware of that effect on me. I'm, most of the time, overwhelmed by Source. Healing always demanded more from me than anything that a monolith could do.”

Tarquin squinted at him, “Yes, of course. Being drained is not something you experience often, quite on the contrary." Tarquin frowned, " _ On the contrary _ ?...” Tarquin remained silent for a moment, observing Sandor and building expectation in those present. “What if Das Vapour tried to make of you a living container of Source...” Tarquin blinked, then his eyes widened as a revelation hit his consciousness, “ _ A living Aeteran _ (*). He wanted to make of you a _ living Aeteran! _ ”

Sandor lowered his eyes. He had reached that conclusion a long time ago, but he still wanted to research more, to find another explanation, a reason behind that purpose. It could not be a mere scholar challenge; he hated the idea that all his life had only been an academy experiment. However, the more they knew about Das Vapour's research and twisted tastes, the less he could believe in another explanation. 

Then Tarquin gasped, as more silent conclusions reached him, one after the other. “Oh, my. You are… we are all in danger if you keep the  _ cycle _ , am I right? What are you going to do?” Tarquin asked, alarmed. 

Sandor did not raise his look, instead, he kept observing his fingers pressing one another in his folded hands on the table, “I'll resist. I'll stabilize the Source, somehow. I think I can delay the cycle if I stay in a middle term, between never being completely full nor drained. I have no other choice.”

“What's going on?” Ifan asked. 

Tarquin looked at him, a strange glint—similar to pity—appeared in his eyes for a fraction of a second, and then observed Sandor looking for permission. Once it was granted, he sighed. “You know how his Source works. It keeps expanding its pool or accelerating its recovery rate no matter what he does. But this constant increase cannot be endless. He is a human, made of flesh, and flesh has limits.” He looked at Sandor, “How long would you resist without your body falling apart? How much of your own Source can you use without destroying the world around you?”

Sandor swallowed. “I'm counting on my...  _ new nature _ to help me on that matter.”

“A new nature too prone to drain Source everywhere.” Tarquin added with eyebrows shot up and narrowed eyes.

Ifan twisted his lips. Maybe for that reason Sandor was delaying so much to fill his pool completely and kept on wasting Source in every opportunity he had.

“Can't you fix his Source? You are a legend on the matter.” Ifan said to Zandalor. 

“Source has changed so much since our days. (*)” His voice was tinged with sadness. He looked at Arhu who nodded. “I need to understand the new changes, and even then, I’m not sure I may have the same mastery I used to.”

Malady raised an eyebrow and stared at the ancient wizard, “Better you do, these times require strong power. We can’t afford for you to be wishy-washy.”

Zandalor frowned at her.

Then, a new rush of quick steps were heard along the corridor. Taking advantage of the opened doors, DeSelby stepped in. Her face showed surprise to find the meeting room so full of people with open doors, but then, she looked at Gareth and Ifan, with a smile on her face. 

“Mission accomplished.” She said.

Behind her, a hooded figure stood still, moving his skeleton hand to some Guardians that were carrying tablets and books in their arms. They left them on the council table and abandoned the room. Only DeSelby and the hooded man remained.

“Fane.” Sandor said with a smile on his face. “Good to see you safe and sound.”

The skeleton lowered his hood and tilted his head, his Source eyes blinking at the sight of the other wizard. “Are you wearing a ripped face and now you are undead; or... you never died in the first place? Nevermind, what about your eyes? Never saw anything like those....”

Sandor looked aside. “Long story. But no, I'm not undead.”

“Mn, what a shame. It would have been interesting to have an immortal fellow after all this world crumbles.”

DeSelby cleared her throat, “Mr. Fane, please, share the important information.” 

Straightening his torso, Fane approached the table and looked up down Tarquin. They shared a competitive look, but no words. Crossing his arms, Tarquin stepped aside and let the Eternal scholar tower over the rest of the people sitting around the table.

“Since this man showed us that disturbing book about the Nadaer,” Fane said twisting his wrist towards Tarquin, “which claimed that my people had been crafted, no less, by their whims-”

“Fane, go to the point. What the hell you found that’s so important.” Ifan interrupted.

“Ah, mortals, always rushing.”

“Yes, we die too fast while listening to you.” Ifan added and Sandor chuckled, “Go to the point.”

“Uhg. Well, I’ve been exploring caves all around Rivellon in search for Eternal structures underground since that damned book distressed me so much. I could not believe my people knew nothing about these supposed Nadaer. Thankfully, I found a cave in the North, close to the Holy Mont-”

“To the point, Fane.” Ifan insisted.

Fane’s glowing eyes flashed with annoyance, then they lay on Sandor. “Can you put a muzzle to your dog?”

Twisting his lips and tilting his head a bit, Sandor reproved that comment. His eyes, somehow, had a disturbing effect on Fane, who looked down at some books spread on the table, and took one in particular, pretending not to be nervous at them. 

“Anyway, in that cave had been dwelling an Eternal seer in isolation for centuries. Her library was enormous, and the amount of knowledge she gathered in her immort-”

“Fane.”

Fane sighed, giving a glimpse to Ifan. “She wrote about the future, or much better, the patterns in the weave of Time and Space that may repeat in the future. Empress Anatelle has been mentioned in her journals, and I found Anatelle's genealogy too, starting around the 30000 AR.”

Zandalor blinked. “I never imagined the origin of the Nadaer was so ancient.”

Turning his head quickly, Sandor darted a surprising look to Zandalor, who remained immutable before those white eyes. “Did you know about the existence of the Nadaer?”

“Under a different name, yes. Astarte(*) was one of them.”

“What?!” Arhu’s voice came out high-pitched.

“They are simply pure magical creatures that take corporeal form in this dimension, and most of the time, if demons are close, they end up corrupted. The corruption affects them too much, turning them mad and dangerous. I knew Astarte was the last one of her kind.”

“Well, Empress Anatelle accepted one of them inside her.” Sandor said. 

“ _ Ate _ them. She  _ ate _ the Lady of Entropy.” Tarquin corrected. 

The comment brought Zandalor’s hand to his mouth, surprise and horror transparent on his face. “How can you eat such a pure creature?”

“Anatelle was known as a demon lover too. She may have known a trick or two for that.” Malady said with a smirk.

“Oh, no, no.  _ That _ corrupted the entity inside her body.” Zandalor said. “And that’s how the true War of the Ending World started? Who would have imagined?”

“What kind of War is that?” Sandor asked. 

“One lost to any History book. A war too bloody to be remembered. A war that destroyed every evidence of happening once.”

“Why are you not rushing them? Uh?” Fane said, looking straight to Ifan. The commander only smirked, baring his fangs. 

“Anyway, let me continue,” Fane said, “This seer has written this genealogy of the Empress Anatelle. Past and future, which is quite impressive if you ask me. She found a way to die several centuries ago, tired of life. Yet, her genealogy covers these times. The last person in Rivellon, with Anatelle’s legacy in their blood is someone called  _ Tartious Qinterus _ .”

“Who’s that?” Gareth asked. 

“That, I do not know.” Fane said, opening the book on the last page. It was written with symbols of Eternal language, completely impossible for everyone to understand. “This is the reason why the Child of Pandemonium is coming. He is following his mother’s scent, present in a whole line of… I assume, a human or dwarf family.”

“Why those pompous names? Lady of the Entropy? Child of Pandemonium?” Zandalor frowned, smirking.

“Aren’t they a family? mother, father, kid?” Gareth asked. 

“Who knows. But it’s not like they are the only Nadaer in this vast multiverse reality.”

Malady widened her eyes at Zandalor's words, “I thought they were the last ones — the  _ three _ last ones.”

“Well, in my time, I imagined Astarte was the  _ only _ one. It seems their dimension can contact ours here and then. It’s hard to understand the complex structure of the many planes of existence.”

“Anywaaay,” Fane said annoyed by so many interruptions, “This heir of the Nadaer legacy in our world is what attracted the Child, consuming everything.”

Zandalor shook his head, “Nadaers do not consume for the sake of consuming. They are workers of Source. They can manipulate it to craft worlds and life, even to craft the gift of Source in their own creations. They are only deeply affected by demons, and their corrupted essences may transform into Void or worse compounds.”

“But this Lady of Entropy, her blood's legacy is corrupted already, by demonic essence, no less.” Sandor said, “It will corrupt the Child in the moment it contacts it.”

“And you are forgetting the small detail of having half of Nemesis minor critters pushing the Veil to get into Rivellon. Chances for this Child to be corrupted are... extremely high.” Malady said. 

“What!?” Zandalor jumped from his seat, his hands on the table supporting all his weight. “You have Damian knocking the main door?”

“We have that under control. Kind of.” Malady said with a hesitant voice. “Even though nobody had heard of Damian for a while. Not even in Nemesis. But I’ve asked some favours to a great King of the Realm, to contain the most powerful demons from coming to Rivellon. He can’t contain everything, so… we have to deal with small demons, those are mostly the ones pushing the Veil.”

Zandalor slid again into his seat, his sight lost on the table, “If we have demons all over the Veil, the Child will be corrupted many, many times. I cannot even fathom the consequences.”

“I imagine the main consequence will be the Child turning into something pretty close to the God King.” Fane said. “This Seer, in this other book-” He tapped the cover on the table, “-explains that the God King decided to be one of us — an Eternal — after creating us. He wanted to form a new family, and so he made the Eternals after his corruption made him forget about the purpose of his travel through the dimensions. He was looking for his Queen, but ended up in this world, alone and amnesic. His corruption is double, I dare say. The first time was not so bad, since he became a reasonable yet sensitive monarch. The second time he submitted corruption was after the betrayal of the Seven, he was in contact with the Void, trapped in isolation. That probably was too much, because he lost every bit of his original personality.”

“Why is the Child after the Queen’s legacy instead of the God King?” Sandor asked.

Fane shrugged, “Maybe the King is not related to this Child? Maybe the corruption sustained by the King disfigured his Nadaer essence so much that the Child can’t identify him? After all, the King was submitted to two different kinds of corruption; demonic and Void one.”

Ifan drew back, resting his back against the chair, and sighed loudly. “What a mess. So… where do we find this lad? Tarry Quintus?”

“Tartious Qinterus. Now, where to find him… I have no idea.” Fane said. 

Everyone remained silent. They did not have the time to start a deep investigation all over Rivellon to find him. There was the possibility that the Lizard expansion may have killed this person too. They did not even know their race either. 

“Wonderful. A world falling apart and we don’t know where to look for the key?” Ifan asked

“It will not be necessary.” Tarquin said. “You already found him.” 

Sandor frowned at him. Then, he widened his eyes when the conclusion fell too obvious, disturbing Tarquin so much that, nervously, he waved his hands, trying to shoo away that intense look over him “I know, shocking. Don't look at me like that. I know, I know, that name is hideous.”

Sandor chuckled. Ifan looked at both scholars, frowning. He did not understand what was happening with those two, as usual.

“Anatelle, look at you... Royal bastardized blood. That's where all that arrogance comes from, I see.” Malady said, smirking at the necromancer.

Ifan’s disconcert was so obvious, that Sandor looked at him and whispered “  _ Tar —  _ tious  _ Qin —  _ terus.” 

Ifan’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes immediately fell on the necromancer. 

Fane scoffed, “This world is doomed. Who would have imagined that you are the only thing attracting the end of the world?” He arranged some books on the table, “At least this makes things easier.”

“Can't we just kill Tarquin and get rid of the problem?” Malady said, her face resting on her hand, bored of all that jabber.

With a hand on his chest, pretending to be deeply offended, Tarquin darted a poisonous look at her, “I dare say that I have an opinion in the next actions to take.”

“Sadly, it will not fix the problem.” Fane said, sighing just for the pleasure to emphasise his annoyance toward all the living’s useless ideas, “This whole world smells of Tarquin, same as the dimensions he visited in his life. The Child, if corrupted, will eat everything in sight, looking for the legacy — his mother’s essence — in Tarquin's wake, even if he is dead.” Fane said with a soft shake of his head.

Sandor looked at Tarquin and a thought crossed his mind, “Since your blood is so special... is there a chance for your skin condition to be related to this legacy? The black mirror reacted too negatively to you, until it was modified to work in our current dimension. Maybe it had been the Child sensing you.”

Tarquin chuckled, “I would say he  _ saw _ me, if you remember that disturbing ordeal in Arx.”

“I do. I truly do.” Sandor laughed nervously. That had been the beginning of this terrible problem. “I used to think that the aggressiveness of the black mirror was a result of your skin condition. Something in it had to disturb the magical nature of the mirror. But when I had my own skin condition--” Sandor touched his chest, still feeling the now smaller lumps and less coarse skin under his robe, “--the mirror never reacted to it. That was when I concluded that your case could not be the result of mere purge. Yours had to have a different nature. It may have been stimulated when Dallis purged you, but... I never could heal it, while I can heal mine. Slowly, though.” He squinted his eyes, “That condition in your skin  _ is _ related to the Lady’s legacy. Now it makes sense.”

“It’s a curse.” Zandalor said, “The Curse of the corruption of Source. That is why a purge produces a similar effect.”

Arhu exclaimed as if something finally made sense for him. “Are you telling us that... all that mess done by Astarte a millennium ago was a corrupted Nadaer? The Void dragon?”

“It may be. I came to that conclusion decades later, when I was resting and some knowledge of the Nadaer came to me. Rivellon has a broad amount of lost History in which the creation is claimed to be a gift of true dragons, creatures beyond this plane of existence. But the War of the Ending World destroyed any record or book that could explain it. Maybe these dragons or the Nadaer, are the same entity. What I can say is that Astarte was a Nadaer, exactly in the same sense you define them, and she was as powerful as the Void Dragon we faced a millennium ago.”(*) 

“May this Child reproduce the same kind of disaster that that dragon did ages ago? Can its corruption go further to the point to taint the whole Source of Rivellon once again?” Arhu gasped, looking down for a moment and remembering that long, exhausting mission with a couple of Source hunters(*) who had put their entire world in danger, “Could your blood be the origin of something worse?” Arhu said, his eyes fixed on Tarquin. 

“I believe that… with some time, and some access to rare magical compounds I can… cleanse it?” Tarquin said, a bit uneasy. He, more than anyone, wanted to get rid of that painful skin condition with all the extra  _ perks  _ that it brought him. 

“Where is Astarte now?” Sandor said.

“Everywhere.” Arhu spread his arms in the air with a sad gesture, “She healed the Source and vanished into the world itself, becoming pure Source essence. She is in all of us.”

Malady buffed, “Useless.” She stood up and looked at Fane. “So, nothing else than that?”

He shook his head.

“Well, we can take a break, what do you think?” Malady looked at Gareth, who nodded, tired, “We have enough information to process, and a lot more to teach to and learn from our ancient wizard,” Her words made Zandalor nod at her too, “So, I suggest you to rest and think about possible plans to face the Child with all the elements we have. And one more thing. If we can solve or deal somehow with the Voidwoken and Lizard problems before it, it would be much much better for all of us. I don't want to have more broken nails.” 

They slowly left the room with the exception of Ifan and Sandor. The wizard remained in the same place he had been sitting during the meeting while Ifan took a seat by his side placing a hand on Sandor’s shoulder blade. 

“Did you know about this cycle since a long time ago?” Ifan’s voice was full of worry and hesitation. His other hand, trembling, touched Sandor’s thigh under the table. 

Sandor looked at him, immediately lowering his disturbing eyes when he noticed Ifan's tension. He observed his shaking hand on his thigh and held it with his own, pouring a restorative spell into it. Slowly, the trembling receded. “I still don't know how it would work now that I'm a...  _ Gheist _ . I was not trying to hide it from you, believe me, I don't-”

“Shh. It's okay, Sandor.” Ifan rubbed his back, “Just… Let me help you with that. Anything that I can do, discharge your Source, containing it... we need to train you, again.” His hand slid up to Sandor’s cheek and caressed it with the back of his fingers, “Let me help you to control that. It's not your burden alone. Alright?”

Leaning in, Sandor rested his cheek against Ifan's shoulder. “Alright.” 

Ifan hugged him. 

Training in the way they used to do in Arx was not an option. Sandor’s fragile physique would require months of many good meals and rest to recover its usual strength, size, and body mass. The training would have to be focussed on finding balance in controlling his wild Source. And they did not have as much time as they needed for the task. The matter was urgent, they had to figure out how to keep Sandor’s Source at bay. Not only for his own sake but everyone’s.

* * *

Several weeks passed by and the days became even darker. Although Arhu kept maintaining the dome over and around the Keep, the waves of Voidwoken and Lizards did not rest, trying to sneak into the Fortress at any opportunity. On one side, it was good that those enormous armies would focus on the Keep; it would give some circumstantial safety to the rest of the Guardians posts around Rivellon, but it was only a matter of time until they would find a trick to destroy the fortress. 

During those days, Sandor and Ifan had been training to control the wizard’s Source. The more Source was recovered in his body, the less he could control it. These training usually ended up in a disaster, with enormous columns of Source raising over the dome and interfering with its stability allowing some enemies to pass through. Of course they were immediately killed by the guards who were in permanent watch, but the general feeling of insecurity around Sandor was undeniable.

These events made Arhu work double, as he contained the natural unbalances that these blasts caused in his protective dome while, at the same time, he kept sustaining the shield itself. Doing such a feat was a clear proof of his vast powers, nobody could deny it. Zandalor added his strength to the protective dome once he got used to the new characteristics of the Source. After all, protective shields were Zandalor’s specialty (*). 

The problem became worse over the days. As it was known, every blast accelerated the next one, since his natural recovery rate increased after each of them. The restrictive devices had become useless. They could only hold Sandor’s full Source for, at least, a couple of days before blasting in extremely dangerous ways, forming columns of raw Source power or concentric shock waves of Source, destroying his shackles every single time. 

Tarquin and Infirma, more versed now due to their years of research on monoliths, developed new versions of the devices to contain Sandor’s powers, but they only lasted a week, when they were lucky. The only temporal solution they found was the only one that Sandor had been trying to manage by himself since his awakening: to keep using Source constantly, burning it if needed, but never to depletion. It was needed to maintain his pool at half.

So that Sandor began to use his enormous amount of Source for mundane things. Since boiling water, to producing air gushes in the fortress, or simply washing objects. Maintaining the vegetable garden was the best way to pour all that power to good use. But he could not make it ripen everyday. He needed to find other ways to constantly use his Source.

* * *

That day, when the moon was not in the sky yet, a tired war owl reached Gareth’s room. The message it brought was immediately shared with everyone: Windego (*), who had been on an atonement journey around Rivellon, healing the ill and spreading the good actions of the Godwokens and Guardians, had sent them a valuable piece of information. Weeks ago, she had healed some repentant Black Ring members who, as a gesture of gratitude, gave it to her.

“There is a chance for us to give a hard blow to the Lizards and the Voidwoken before everything goes mad.” Gareth said in the council room, everyone looking at him with high expectations. 

“Now, that’s good news.” Malady said, smiling. 

“Windego says that she knows where the Black Ring leader hides, that he is the mastermind of the strategies we see in the Lizards and Voidwoken movements. He is the one telling them where and when to attack.”

“Are Lizards not commanded by the Red King?” Ifan said, frowning. 

“He is a commander who follows this leader, the Right Hand of the God King no less.”

Sandor frowned. “But didn't we kill that one? That Void-corrupted elf? Sallow man (*)?”

“No, he had been just a mere local leader. The true leader of the Black Ring in all Rivellon is a dark twisted man, always secluded in his laboratory, according to what Windego says here.” Gareth moved the small piece of paper in the air.

“Well, time to get rid of this annoying army once and for all.” Ifan said, “The less vulnerable flanks we have to receive this damned Child, the higher our chances of surviving this mess.”

* * *

Windego's coordinates showed that the hideout was located in the south of the Dragon’s Spine, close to the point from where the dense mountain range begins to fuse into the ocean in direction to the Balurik isles. Curiously, it was several kilometres away to the South from the excavation that Sandor had been part of with the other Balurik Academy's scholars.

Only Guardians were entrusted with this mission. Sandor, of course, joined them, eager to see how his Source would respond now in a face-to-face battle. The more he used his Source — as long as he did not blast nor get exhausted — the longer it would take him to fill his pool completely. 

In the coordinates they only found a cave whose entrance was a long corridor, barely illuminated with spaced candles on the wall, filled with a silence proper of a graveyard. By walking along the ominous tunnel, a looming feeling aroused in the air and goosebumps spread on their bodies with every echoed step they gave. Something bad was going to happen, everyone knew it. 

As they went further in, some symbols that Ifan could recognise as part of the Black Ring language started to glow more intensely on the walls. To everyone’s surprise, Sandor could not only read that language but understand it as well. This had brought to Ifan’s mind some lost moments of their past, when he used to find Sandor reading Black Ring language books in their house in Arx. He had almost forgotten about that, but he put the unspoken obvious question in the back of his mind. It was not the time nor the place to ask about it.

Sandor explained that the symbols on the walls were strong spells to infuse confusion on any enemy while at the same time enhancing the protection all over the place. They were walking into the lair of a monster that was expecting them. 

When the corridor ended, they found a huge underground cave decorated with ancient stalagmites and vast extensions of carved metal walls encrusted into the rocks. Fane recognized the structure immediately. It was an old Eternal laboratory, built under the ground as a safety measure. In the distance, under cold lights of blue fires spread all over the cave, an altar with several desks by its side were displayed. Behind them, a crucified Gheist was looking at the intruders while the shadow of a man, under the creature, turned over his heels at the sight of the intruders, quietly.

For some seconds, everyone kept frozen on their spot, watching the shadow as it watched them back, measuring the situation just to determine the best action to take. Taking the stillness of the shadow as a gesture of good faith, the group approached the set of desks, far enough to be out of range of the shrieker (*) but sufficiently close to distinguish the shadow under it. The man was wearing a smirk, and long white hair decorated his face frame. His long beard was grey, and his eyes, darker than night, observed them with amusement. Ifan and Sandor widened their eyes in shock. 

_ That man... That man... _

As lightning, Sandor's hidden memories struck him. He winced as more fragments of Gregorio's past, coming suddenly, mixed with his own in that precise moment, realising that this man had been who had kidnapped him and tortured him in order to turn him into a Gheist.

“I... I can't believe....  _ You. _ ” Sandor's broken voice quivered. “It had… always… being you.”

The old man raised an eyebrow, his smirk remained unchangeable, “Look at the outsmarted student. It seems you found a way to recover yourself. I could not believe you were such a rebel to use the self-blocking spell to ruin my gift to you.”

“Gift?”

Ifan could not believe his eyes. He remembered that old man perfectly. Killing him had been a contract paid by Magisters which almost got him killed. The sneaky scholar Das Vapour, who after giving a hell of a fight, had been carbonised in front of Ifan almost a decade ago in the Balurik ruins was now there, standing in front of him. How could it be? The most obvious answer made Ifan shiver. 

Ifan looked at Sandor once he recovered from the surprise. As he had imagined it, Sandor was also looking at a ghost, and the emotional shock had covered all his visible skin with a dense amount of fine tendrils of Source, glowing intensely. Protective, Ifan took his shield and sword, and stepped forward to take a stance in front of Sandor, awaiting any reaction. 

“A gift, indeed. I've done everything for you to become what you are now. You are the most beautiful, powerful living creation in a human. This unique ability of yours, your blasts, that amount of raw power that you can summon in a second, the malleability of your Source core that gives you endless possibilities,  _ everything. _ I’ve done  _ everything _ for you to be perfect. And soon, the flesh will not be an inconvenience anymore. Just accept Him. He will grant you immortality. And with your unlocked powers, He will make you his Left Hand. We will be together again, Master and student, side by side,” Das Vapour smiled tasting the effect of his words in Sandor, “No. Something much better, as a Father with his dear adopted Son. Is it not what you always wanted?”

Sandor looked down, a couple of rebel tears ran along his cheeks. “You... were you always a servant of the God King?”

“It does not matter the means that one can use when the goal is so big and powerful, my child. I've raised you to be wise, not to be sentimental.” Das Vapour said.

“You _ didn't _ raise me, not after all what... you allowed to happen to me. I was a damned child! You... You monster.”

“All that happened to you, it was needed. You now possess a power that nobody would imagine to have.”

“Who cares! I thought you were... you were... the only person I could trust. But everything was a lie. And you didn't stop there... you... also planned to make me a Gheist? Have I always been your puppet?”

“What?” Ifan blinked, realising now the implications of the cryptic talk among both men. He looked at Sandor over his own shoulder, keeping his shield and sword at the ready, “He… he was… was he?”

Sandor looked at Ifan for a fraction of a second, averting his white intimidating eyes, “He... he was the man who tortured Sorcerers to craft this new type of Gheists. I remember now. I used the spell to block myself and … turned into Gregorio, because I did not want to be part of this. And I couldn't escape. Alive.” 

“Holy crap.” Ifan gasped, looking with constricted pupils at the elder scholar. Now he would never feel the slightest scrap of guilt for killing him. Twice. 

“This is your last opportunity, Sandor. From many, you were the only one who survived the procedure; you are the strongest gem, you deserve the power. And yes, the process may not be pretty, but when is learning pretty? It always requires sacrifices.”

Sandor looked down, shaking his head. He could not believe that his old self deeply yearned to be treated like this man's son, to find something close to family in that twisted scholar. Without sharing words, he took his staff from his back and used just  _ a tiny piece _ of his Source. Enormous tongues of Source swirled up around the staff, and the crystal on its top shone strongly. It followed a second surge of power; lethal flames of raw Source unfolded around Sandor's body, making the rest of the Guardians — including Ifan — to step away, recoiling. Sandor’s eyes emanated Source fumes that turned his look terrifying.  _ The monster among monsters. _

Das Vapour sighed and clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Youth is always so impulsive. One cares for them, gives everything to them, and this is how they repay you.” 

The old scholar took his own staff and hit its bottom against the ground. The movement activated several containers that were attached to the shaft that glowed in Source. He also touched his belt, where many small boxes hung from it. Ifan recognised them immediately — how could he forget those damned little things? Those boxes were the devices that the twisted scholar used against him time ago, in the ruins of Balurik. Those were the containers where Das Vapour stored the Source he had never had. Now, with a fragment of Divinity of his own, he would probably use them to enhance it.

“So, it comes to this end, when the student defies the master. What a waste.” He lifted his staff and touched the Shrieker with it, draining the creature completely. "If I've created you, I can destroy you." He said, his eyes locked with Sandor’s.

The fight did not last much. Despite all his tricks, Das Vapour never had a chance against Sandor; no matter how many Source devices he used or traps and enchantments over the cave could activate, Sandor's Source consumed everything. He destroyed his tutor blasting by accident as his emotions turned his Source into a more uncontrollable power. But as they had supposed, death did not put an end to Das Vapour. He was sworn, so he raised once again after the first fight. 

The second time they defeated him, Sandor released his most deadly power of Gheist vampirism, consuming his Master's Source. Although Das Vapour's Source was rather poor and it could never be enough to fill his pool again, it probably had a heavy emotional weight on Sandor. That was the reason why he could not help but blast a second time, more violently and rawly than during the first fight. Ifan could cast Source just in time to rise a thick wall from the ground that sheltered his team from a sure death. 

After the blast, everyone looked around, inspecting the weak condition in which the whole cave had been left — now shaking and in danger of collapse at any moment. That second blast had also been too much for Sandor to sustain who, unconscious, fell on the ground. Ifan ran to him, worried. He could not feel any remnants of Source in Sandor's body, as it was usual after his blasts, but when he lifted him from the ground in his arms, in just a fraction of a second, a colossal amount of Source bloomed in that body at the same time that Sandor opened his terrifying eyes. A  _ sudden  _ recovery. The brutal amount of Source that Ifan perceived in him from one second to another froze him, wordless, enduring those terrifying eyes while a primitive fear raised in the back of his mind telling him to flee. That recovery had been so unnatural. The paralysing effect was broken when Sandor closed his eyes, ashamed.

Ifan cleared his throat and released a sigh while all his tension diminished. 

Sandor was now the owner of an enormous Source pool with a scarier recovery. Ifan helped Sandor to sit on the ground and let him get used to the sharp pain of Source ashes that the use of such amount of Source must have caused in his body. Usually, that effect receded as long as the Sourcerer's core was refilled; however, in Sandor, those two processes had been broken now. He was not as exhausted and sore as he should be.

Meanwhile, Fane inspected the desks close to the altar, looking around for tablets or books of interest that could have been spared by Sandor's Source blasts. The rest of the Guardians checked every nook and cranny of the cave. 

In a dark corner, they found dozens of monoliths piled up, unconnected to the ground, ready to be used. They were the same kind of monoliths spread all over Rivellon. Ifan could not help but grunt at the sight of them. They had never been elven monuments, and the elven inscription in them was just a mere distraction for curious eyes.

In less than an hour, pressed by the imminent collapse of the cave, they collected several blueprints, maps, and invaluable journals of the dead scholar. They would have looked for more material if the cave were not shaking. They had to leave. The periodic trembling of the cave forced the Guardians to run away, gathering as much information they could without being too picky. When they reached the exterior, the cave finally collapsed and the long corridor toward it became darker, the glowing inscriptions on the wall had disappeared.

Once in the Keep, Gareth and Malady, with all the scholars they had at their disposal, inspected the collected material. Several blueprints of the monoliths confirmed what Tarquin had concluded time ago: they were meant to drain Source, but also to store it underground. Among the maps, they got one in which all the storage devices of Rivellon were marked with clear coordinates. Now, looking for them was not going to be a blind expedition, but a really efficient one. 

If they could reach those storage and manipulate the monolith network, they could even be able to use the Source stored in it to boost the Guardians, too weakened by the flickering Source. They would hit a big strike against the Black Ring while at the same time strengthening the Guardians. Sandor could even feed that system with his apparent endless Source, helping him to maintain his Source balanced without blasts. The future, for the first time in a long while, did not look so grim.

The news was quickly spread to the rest of the Guardian's posts all over Rivellon. With the exact coordinates, each of them were assigned to find their closest storage devices underground and take control of them. In less than a month they would be able to use the system to their benefit. It was clear for Fane that this system had to be crafted by Eternals, hidden underground so the creatures of Rivellon will not suspect its true purpose: harvest their Source for later consumption. It was an interesting system that allowed them to eat the cattle without killing it completely. 

Using the detailed blueprints of the monolith system, Tarquin and Sandor crafted a henge in the Keep underground, made of six monoliths that would help them to manage the Source network. It was going to be used by Sandor every time his release of Source was imperative, sending his excess to the system. The six pillars had Source-conducting chains attached to their tops that would keep the Sourcerer in the middle, draining all his energy. For protection, Tarquin added an anti-source cage over the henge, to contain any blast that may happen. Sandor could not help but feel repulsed by that structure. 

While Tarquin and Sandor worked in this new Source network, Infirma studied the books and reports brought from the cave. To her surprise, she found the answer to some of her conjectures: The development of  _ Deathfog  _ itself had been done by Das Vapour, under the commission of the God King, who gave him the essence of the Void that corroded everything. The more they knew about Das Vapour's genius, the sicker Sandor felt.

However, the worst was found in Das Vapour's last journal, in which he explained the true goal of the experiments on Sandor: to turn him into a living Aeteran under the God King's service. For doing so, it was required for him to reach the state of constant flux; a condition in which the recovery of his whole Source was so immediate, that blasting continuously would never drain him completely. The thought, taking into account the magnitude of Sandor's powers, was extremely disturbing. His new Gheist nature could help him to resist a bit longer, but no flesh would sustain that amount of Source and Source ashes for a long time. That was the reason why Das Vapour needed him to be sworn. 

That possibility was now out of question. But the problem still remained. 

* * *

When Ifan went out of the bathtub and dried himself with a towel, he glimpsed at the man in his bed. Sandor was resting his back against the wall and reading one of those teenage romantic novels he used to. Ifan smiled at that image. He had missed that. It was so proper of Sandor, no matter the colour of his hair or eyes nor the shape of his body nor the raw power latent inside him. 

Many times Ifan had asked him to narrate the story of those books before going to sleep. It was a delight to fall asleep with the sound of Sandor’s —back then— soft voice. When Ifan realised about the kind of taste that Sandor had in his leisure books, he thought it was a bit creepy that a grown man like him, in his middle age, could enjoy those ridiculous stories. The idealisation in them used to be too much for Ifan’s taste, according to what Sandor narrated him briefly about them. However, over time, and after many short reviews that Sandor used to give him in the middle of the night, he began to understand why Sandor kept reading them. 

They were innocent stories of one of Sandor's most secret obsessions: the first times in all aspects of life. The discovery of new things, the taste of the unknown that changes a perspective radically, an experience that marks a before and an after. Things that Sandor always thought he had ran out of them. After years of knowing each other, Ifan could guess that Sandor's idea about first times may have shifted a little bit, but somehow, his bad taste in novels remained. Ifan chuckled to himself while scrubbing his back with the towel.  _ Bad habits die hard.  _ He knew a lot about those.

He wore his underwear and went straight into bed, not bothering to use any shirt or pants. He liked to enjoy Sandors’ closeness as naked as possible. He hugged Sandor’s waist, as he usually did when the wizard was reading, and hid his face against Sandor’s hip. Still focused on the story, Sandor scratched Ifan’s head with a warming spell on his hand which slowly dried his wet hair. It was not much of an effort, since he had used a lot of Source growing plants in the vegetable garden. His Source level was lower than usual and it did not demand much focus from him even though it was secretly painful to execute; the Source ashes never receded.

Ifan hummed, charmed by the touch, and buried his face in Sandor’s hip even more. He even pulled down Sandor’s bed pants and underwear together, low enough to have access to Sandor’s skin, and guided by his most hidden habits, he breathed there, sensing the new scent of his lover. It was not that home-made bread scent anymore, but something closer to healing potions. Dragged by the intimacy of the scent, he licked the exposed skin. The unconscious habit he had reacquired thanks to Sandor's acceptance and patience. 

He remembered the first time he tried to do it when their relationship was still blooming. A rushed tension used to take over Sandor's body, and despite hiding it, it was obvious how many disgusting images that lick used to bring him. It was a gesture that after long discussions and resignation to what they caused him, Sandor started to understand in its full meaning. 

Every time Ifan licked him, it was not only a desire to know everything about him, it was the most honest gesture of acceptance to everything that was part of Sandor. It was the manifestation of his deep desire to embrace his flaws and wounds and darkness. A gesture that never showed regrets. Over time, and aware of the enormous meaning of it, the wizard became used to it, accepting it, and by doing so it turned into a silent way to offer Ifan a safe place where to be himself, displaying his own oddities without judgement. 

By now, and after everything that they had passed through, that intimacy inspired nothing but tenderness in Sandor. How could he reject that tongue that was always trying to reach him uselessly? 

This was the best reward Ifan could ask from Sandor. It was proof that a wolf could be able to caress with his claws a little frightened bird and inspire all kinds of emotions but fear. Maybe, Sandor was right. Perhaps, he had never been a wolf in the first place. 

Oblivious to the storm of Ifan's deep emotions that licking used to cause him  _ each  _ time, Sandor would laugh at the tickles, leaving a gentle hand on his hair, scratching his nape. What was never missed by the wizard was how easily Ifan could sleep after this small ritual. No better place to rest than the one where there is acceptance.

But that day it was not going to be like any other. Ifan did not want to go to sleep without taking care of Sandor. The travel back to the Keep after Das Vapour encounter had been silent, and it had been kept that way for several days. Although Sandor was still tired and enduring the Source ashes, he had not manifested neither complaints nor pain since their return to the Keep. Having killed his tutor — or worse since he consumed his Source — had not changed much his mood, apparently. Despite his tiredness, he had even used a lot of his Source in the vegetable garden.

But deep down, Ifan could feel the uneasiness in Sandor’s body. Ifan could not say to which degree each emotion was predominant, but certainly he was sure that something between anger and frustration tinged Sandor's mood in that moment, bitter from being betrayed and used. Sentiments that Ifan was not stranger with. 

Ifan sneaked a hand under Sandor’s bed-shirt and scratched his belly. He was not surprised to find no fat there. Of course, Sandor was still too low on his weight. He kissed again the skin on that hip, and licked it several times more until his persistence got Sandor’s attention. He put the book on his lap and looked down at him. 

“Something wrong?” Sandor said.

Ifan nuzzled the hip and raised his green eye to see Sandor’s face. A beautiful shade of green reflected the few lights of candles in the room. 

“Do you want to talk? Come down here, I opened the doors of my bed, and you are still up there, reading terrible teenagers' love stories.”

Sandor chuckled. “They are not as bad as you think.” Sandor patted the book on his lap, “I think you would enjoy this one. It is quite erotic, and it has an elf as one of the main characters.” 

Ifan scoffed.

“The young couple are discovering each other's tastes in such a tender way.” Sandor smiled silly, “It must be wonderful to have the best first time with someone caring for you...”

“You can always use that blocking spell and leave me to take care of you.”

Sandor giggled as he felt Ifan’s arms stronger around his waist. He truly wanted to keep talking inside the bed, warmer.

With good cheer, Sandor put the book on the bedside table and slid down into the bed. Ifan opened his arms to welcome him. He left an arm under Sandor's neck, for him to use it as a pillow, and the other rested on his ribs, lazily going down and up over Sandor's side. The wizard put his palms on Ifan's chest, the warm spell still active in his fingers.

“That's... that's sweet.” Sandor said, leaving a peck on Ifan's lips. “To overwrite the bad memories...”

“Just say the word.”

“Maybe after we take care of… the many things endangering this world. It's not wise to lose my memories so frequently.”

Both chuckled. “Well, the spell is just an excuse... if you ask me, I can take care of you at any moment anyways... First times are too overrated in those books. What matters is what you choose to consider the first thing in your life.”

“That… That, sometimes, is impossible, Ifan.” Sandor whispered.

“If it’s impossible, well... What truly matters is what you live, what you have in your present, which is not usually what has been the first thing in your life. True. Especially not when you are old like us. First things could be good memories... But happy memories of the past are terrible nightmares when your present is grim.”

Sandor's smile was wiped out with those words. Slowly, he cupped Ifan's cheek, scratching his beard. They looked at each other, intensely. When he could not resist any longer those cold white eyes, Ifan approached him in a warm hug, pressing his lips on Sandor's forehead, as an excuse to break eye contact. He still needed a lot of time to get used to that predatory Ghesit look. 

“Do you want to talk about Das Vapour?” Ifan said a bit bluntly, not sure how to introduce the topic after that moment that had filled him with uneasiness. 

“There is nothing to say.” Sandor's tone turned hard. Despite not seeing him directly, Ifan could feel Sandor's jaw clenched against his chest, his fingers turning into claws, slowly. He drew back a bit to see Sandor's face, now with a slight frown. “I.... All my life was a lie. I was born by mere work accident, just to be taken as a cursed guinea pig for a man who sold his humanity to a mad, corrupted entity. He used me, he lied to me in ways... I... I ….” Sandor bit his lip. He truly needed to talk about it. 

“Speak your mind.”

“It’s… hard to accept that… Not a single abuse was accidental. For the Fallen! I was... a child. A mere child.” His anger turned into sadness, and his eyes became wet. Ifan embraced him again, allowing him to dig his face in his chest. He kept caressing his head. “Everyone was a toy of the Gods, but I was not even that. I was a toy of his making. And do you know what's worse? That nothing of that had meaning. So much pain... just to mess with my… Source. A mere academic exercise.”

Ifan rubbed Sandor’s back, slowly. 

“And I had to be grateful. He said so. That list we found with Das Vapour’s journals time ago, the many others that passed through the same hell… None of them survived. So… I had… to be… grateful.”

“Sickening man.”

“And you know what’s worse? That nothing that I can say now can fix anything of what had happened. Nothing will heal it. Nothing will change it.”

“Can’t it make it lighter?”

“No. It’s too deep, Ifan. I was a child… a fucking child.”

Ifan cupped Sandor's face with a hand and gently forced himself to keep eye contact. There was nothing he could say that would help. Only give him a soft caresses. 

If Sandor were not Sandor, if he had not his deep scars in his mind, Ifan would have suggested to have a wild night of rough intense lovemaking to release all that anger and frustration. Ifan would not mind to be the subject of all that intensity, quite on the contrary. Those nights always helped Nueleth. It was usually a good way to get rid of those annoying sentiments that some battles hard to win leaves in a fighter's soul, with too many losses to mourn, with too many wounds to heal. But that would be quite complicated with Sandor. Ifan wanted to offer him something that could help him. But he was not sure what it could be. 

“Is there something I can do to ease this anger?” He said, as the memory of Gregorio being rough with him made his cheeks get a soft colour. After all, they had not done anything since Sandor awoke, waiting for Gregorio’s memories to return to his place and to face the consequences of that rough night.

“I don't think so...” Sandor lowered his eyes. He was always averting his look in intimacy, not to scare him with his monster eyes. The last he needed was to abuse that endurance that Ifan was developing slowly. 

"I love you, Sandy. Do you know it, right?" He said thumbing Sandor's cheek, looking for his evasive eyes.

Sandor smiled, "I love you too." Sandor lent his head toward that hand and kissed its palm.

"Look at me." Ifan whispered. 

Rueful, a bit hurt, Sandor opened his eyes and looked at those marvellous green emeralds. He loved those eyes; it was such a punishment not to be able to be lost in them without filling Ifan with uneasiness. 

"Sandy, don't avoid my eyes.."

He looked aside, incapable of doing it. "I'm sorry... it's just... I know they look awful..."

Ifan caressed Sandor’s lips. It was not as if he were not conscious of that effect on him. More than once he had a bad reaction to them. Those white eyes of contracted pupils were so frightening and the looming Source latent in that fragile body could be perceived by any sourcerer as a constant threat of death. 

"Sandy... I want to get used to them. I know ... I know they make me nervous sometimes. It's... hard to control that feeling. But it's just a matter of time."

“This was what… He did to me, too. My eyes… because ruining my childhood was not enough...” Sandor drew a bitter smile "It's ... It's frustrating. You never feared me... nobody did. Now... with these eyes... Daniel destroyed so many things in my life, and I was unaware of it. I loved him… he saved me from hell. I thought he did… But it was a lie. And I loved him. And he did not even forgive my eyes. It was not enough. It was never enough..." Some tears ran along his cheeks, being carefully removed by Ifan’s thumbs.

Ifan took gently Sandor's face with both hands and forced him to look into his eyes. "Sandy, those eyes are an honour medal. You lived a hell and you survived." He sadly smiled, penetrating his look in Sandor's, full of bravado as he always did with life. "And I can't be more happy about it."

Sandor smiled shyly. "You don't regret having a  _ Gheist  _ husband?"

“I have a unique taste in men…” Both chuckled trying to relax a bit with the joke. 

Ifan swallowed, "I could live without you. I've learnt how to survive almost everything. But it was hard. Damn hard. It may be selfish, but I wanted you, with me, no matter in what way. When I thought I had seen your corpse… My soul was torn, especially knowing our last moments were... so wrong. I used to activate my spirit vision many times a day, wondering if your spirit... would be around me. I wanted to ask you my forgiveness. I imagined that you were going to wait for me in the Hall of Echoes. And we were going to meet our final destination together. Thinking about that helped me to survive. But my mind was shifting reality more and more often. I was all the time imagining how I could meet you again. Even though it was... impossible. But then...when... when you... in that cage... hell.” Ifan frowned, his eyes jumping to different points, teary, “When the possibility was so real... dear, I couldn't care less about your changes. You could have been an incarnation in Lucian's dead body. I wouldn’t care."

Sandor chuckled, "I would be so big, and with a beard... the white hair would remain the same, though."

Ifan smiled, thankful for Sandor to joke when he was at the edge of breaking, "No offence, but I prefer this body thousands of times, those eyes included. Lucian is… well… Lucian. Imagine him, in this moment, here,” Ifan shuddered violently, “… for Rhalic's ass, don’t put weird images in my mind!" He dearly hit Sandor’s shoulder.

Sandor laughed, “It was you who did it…” Sandor squinted his eyes and raised his eyebrows, tapping his fingers on Ifan’s chest, “Imagine taking you with Lucian’s shape; strong arms, no height problems... That would be so convenient.”

“Stop. Stop it! You rascal!” 

Ifan pressed Sandor in his chest with a loving strong hug, playfully. 

Sandor laughed and at the same time, some tears fell. He held such a mixture of dual emotions that out of the blue, without even knowing what or how it had happened, all his body discharged Source into Ifan's body. So many times the process had been led by Ifan, that his body, unbalanced by the strong confusing emotions, made it by its own now, taking advantage of the intimate proximity. 

A dense flux of Source violently moved into Ifan’s body, surprising him. The unexpected feeling made Ifan cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, barely contained in a gasp. Instead of pushing Sandor away, scared by that unexpected Source, he tightened his embrace. Suddenly, Ifan was too aware of his own weakened Source core, becoming more vivid, tight even. Despite the initial fear, the surge of Source had been completely welcomed in his body, leaving him breathless and surprised. It felt as if he had reached a deep level of satisfaction. 

Startled, Sandor immediately got rid of Ifan’s embrace and sat on the bed. He quickly wiped out his own tears and pushed Ifan's against the mattress, inspecting his pulse on his neck. His eyes were rolled back for a fraction of a second, and his heartbeat was a bit altered too but nothing out of scale. After a moment, his eyes turned to normal, looking around, unfocused, still glowing in green and a bit closed, as if he were still half unconscious. The Source shock had been unexpected for both. 

"Ifan! Ifan! are you okay!? Answer me!" Sandor placed a hand on his bare chest, close to his heart. His other hand running along his forehead to clean his face of any rebel strand of hair and forcing his eyes to stay focused on him. 

Ifan's eyes were a bit narrowed, still recovering from the intense sensation. When his sight was clearer once more, he smiled at Sandor in a silly way, as he used to do when his hint of drudanae had been too much, and lifted his hand to grab Sandor's collar shirt and pull it gently to give him a peck on his lips. 

"Perfect. Can I get more of that? Whatever it is." He chuckled and kissed Sandor sensually. 

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Aetera(n)** [  [ Divinity Original Sin II  ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/quest/the-aeteran/) ]: device of an infinite capacity for Source that could purge the whole world. It is said that it had been created by Eternals.

**Astarte** [ [ Lore in general, Divinity Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Astarte) ]: She is considered an almost-god of the Source, responsible for releasing the Void Dragon in DOS1. She is who created Source and life in Rivellon, according to DOS1. The only mention of her name in DOS2 is the name of a ring crafted by Gratiana: Astarte's Tears.

**Sallow Man** [  [ Divinity: Original Sin II  ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-the-nameless-isle/#3555) ]: Void-corrupted elf that asks for Alexandar’s head in the Nameless Isle during the game. It was the leader of the Black Ring in DOS2.

**Shrieker ** [ [Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Shrieker)]: Special kind of deadly silent monk. They are usually seen crucified along the game, but Gheists share the same model, so it could be assumed that both are created through similar procedures or that they both are the same, just the crucifixion makes them have a more defensive usage.

**Windego ** [  [ Divinity: Original Sin II  ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Windego) ]: Sworn old lady sourcerer that was tasked with destroying the Godwoken.

**Zandalor** [ [Lore in general, all Divinity games except DOS2 ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zandalor)]: Ancient wizard of great importance in Rivellon. Friend of Arhu.

**Concepts**

**Source has changed** [ [ Divinity games ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Source) ]: This comment comes from Larian’s typical lack of consistency in its lore along the different games. In DOS1, Source was a power that allowed potent magic, it was corrupted by something (probably the Void), and was not linked to any god, as it is in DOS2. The main characteristic of Source in DOS1 was that it usually made its wielders lose their sanity, so that any Sourcerer was hunted down by Source Hunters. In DOS2, they removed the “madness” component that Source intrinsically had , and added its divine nature.

**Zandalor’s narration of Rivellon History** [ [ Divinity Games ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Lore) ]: Despite the concept of Nadaers being exclusively 100% headcanon, the rest of the ideas are not. The Wizard War exists in Divinity Lore, same as the concept of true Dragons being the creators of the worlds. There are also a lot of centuries lost in Rivellon history that have no explanation which I considered a consequence of a headcanoned war called the “War of the Ending World” which has no more explanation than that. My headcanons, as usual, try to fill the gaps in the lore. Another link to understand the timeline of Rivellon history can be found [ [ here ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Timeline) ].

**Source hunters** [ [ Divinity Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/The_Order_of_the_Source_Hunters:_A_Brief_History) ]:This is a branch of the Divine Order specialised in chasing and killing Sourcerers. They were the responsibiles to kill Braccus Rex for the first time. All this part is related to bits of the main plot of Divinity: Original Sin; where the main enemy is a Void Dragon that the main characters you play, a couple of Source Hunters, negectled in keeping it prisoner. Zandalor and two more wizards helped these Source Hunters to kill the dragon.

**Zandalor’s specialty** [ [ Divinity II, Flames of Vengeance ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Zandalor) , half-headcanon]: This makes reference to the main quest of Divinity II, in which Zandalor sustained an enormous shield around Aleroth to protect it from a siege of the Black Ring. The headcanon part is the fact that Zandalor “make” this shield with his own Source, but canonly speaking, he took an ancient protection from a magical vault and repurposed it over Aleroth. 

_ Warning: All this lore has to be taken with a pinch of salt. Larian never had intentions to be consistent with the lore of each game, so my whole fic keeps forcing a relationship between the concepts, tring to make them fit the best way I can find, but in the end, it is just my own doing. So, sure, some people will disagree a lot with my short explanations [which, of course, I dont want to bore people reading a whole glossary of pages of inconsistent lore] but keep in mind that there is no way to craft a consistent lore of all Divinity games, no matter how "well fitted" or "ill fitted" these explanations may look. [Lore-freak speaking here] _


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

“Sandy, Sandy.”

Ifan whispered, sometimes languorously groaning that name as the thrust pushed his body against the mattress. His long hair was spread all over the pillow, part of it stuck around his sweaty neck. His wet lips were parted and his frown was a bit raised. Some lines of glowing Source appeared under his skin, rushing along his body to disappear afterwards. He was a vibrating picture of pleasure and vulnerability.

It had been a long time since Sandor had awoken in Gregorio's body. And fearing for the consequences of his memories blending, Ifan actively avoided encouraging any sexual situation, silently dealing with the heavy guilt that tinged his mood every time Sandor tried to do it. At first, Sandor had feared that his new predatory appearance was the cause of such rejection. But Ifan had brought him some peace of mind when he explained the reason without reservations. Ifan wanted to be sure that the night spent with Gregorio had not negatively affected Sandor's memory, worsening his conflicted relationship with sex if they pretended that such selfish night had never existed. They had to wait. Sadly, there was no other way to know the effect until Sandor could recover Gregorio’s memories completely.

During the following weeks after their encounter with Das Vapour, Sandor experienced an increase in the recovery of Gregorio’s memories. Maybe the impact of that ordeal had, in the end, a beneficial aspect. 

That evening, just after having dinner and preparing himself to sleep in Ifan's small room, Sandor remembered  _ that  _ night. It came to his mind like a lightning when he went into the bed and its fresh herbal scent reached his nose.

He remembered the eagerness with which Gregorio had stepped into that bed, the lack of shame in proposing the deal, the curious manipulation in order to convince Ifan of crafting the scrolls—so proper of a Balurik scholar—and the  _ darkness _ . The strange thick darkness that surrounded him during the whole experience while Ifan’s words and soft sounds intensified the effect of the sensations reverberating in his body.

Although it had been rougher and rawer than any other night he had shared with Ifan, he could notice now how deeply wounded Ifan had been to accept something that he knew was going to hurt him. And willingly, he had simply embraced that cruel deal to keep the illusion of a living Sandor a little longer.

Sandor also vividly remembered how conflicted he was, in Gregorio's skin, when he took the place of that illusion, convincing himself that it could explain all his vague memories of pages of books he never read. The experience had hurt him too but in another way. As Gregorio, he had swallowed his own jealousy, trying to take the best of the moment but knowing it was not meant for him. After all, Ifan’s lusty voice was not repeating his name. No. He kept repeating the name of a dead man, desperate to make him alive, even if it meant to consume that silent monk. 

Gregorio had simply been a circunstancial replacement, a warm body to give a more tangible shape to a desired illusion. Nothing more. That name floating in the air of the small room kept emphasising how rejected he was, surrounded by that thick darkness of unknownness.

And now, awakened, he could not feel better about it. Gregorio always wanted to become that illusionary man that Ifan loved so much, because he was desperate to be the target of such intense emotions. He was thirsty for having something similar, something that could give him some sense of purpose in his blank dark existence. And in the end, he had always been that target. Gregorio’s deepest desire had become true. He was loved, unconditionally, and his partner, _ out there _ , had always been waiting for him. Sandor could not help but smile broadly as an intense emotion of wholeness filled his chest. He did not wait to tell Ifan the news.

That night, maybe too eager to cross all his limits, Sandor encouraged Ifan to make him love in a different way, trying to endure Ifan's weight on him. Despite attempting several times, it was impossible for Sandor to bear it. His body violently rejected any kind of invasion, no matter how tender it was; it only brought him the worst memories of his past that, sadly, the spell did not erase. Some wounds never healed. Not even with magic.

It was true that Sandor's past was still there despite the holes in his memories — it would always be present— sometimes bittering the good moments, but they had lost their alienating effect on him. Maybe not everything could be healed but many wounds had been soothed. They did not bleed anymore, catapulting him to states of mind out of control. They were now moderate, easier to deal with, but always present. This revelation made him understand that he could recover, with Ifan, more pieces of his own life that he had always thought completely lost.

Not wanting to waste the mood, Sandor playfully guided Ifan to rest his back against the mattress, overwhelming him with kisses and touches. Ifan hooked his legs around Sandor’s waist and squeezed him. 

This was something that Sandor could not only easily bear but also enjoy. Now more than ever. The only precaution that sometimes made Sandor hesitant was his intense flux of Source, always released in their intimacy. That marvellous accident that had happened weeks ago had turned into their secret trick to deal with two problems at the same time. The Source discharge usually gave Sandor some days of stability, while the pleasure that it caused in Ifan was always a good boost for Sandor’s confidence in bed. Sandor was sure now that no elf could match this unique experience he could offer him, and it was also clear that his new look was not a hindrance in the process either.

In general, their bed life had changed since Sandor had fully recovered Gregorio's memories. What they feared that could turn into a new scar, had become a completely positive change in their intimacy to the point that, in rare opportunities, Sandor would not need to use the polymorph spell to snatch from Ifan his most lewd sounds. That night was one of them.

“Sandy.” Ifan whimpered, his toes curled, imprinting more pressure with his legs around Sandor's waist. His fingers were nailed in the blankets, while the repetitive movement pushed him further and further into, not only the pleasure of the flesh, but also of the Source.

Like in one of those rare opportunities, Sandor was enjoying the lovemaking in his own skin as well despite his conditioning. Sadly, it was common for him that the erotic moment would fill his mind with nauseating memories. The image of Ferx, that man of icy eyes and blonde hair, master of twisting Sandor's repulsion into unavoidable physical reaction, was always standing out in his mind and tainting the moment. It was impossible not to remember him every time his body enjoyed Ifan's contact between sweat and hot gasping. But instead of stopping short and letting the past overwhelm him, as it used to do it, Sandor opened his eyes to clean that image from the past and see Ifan under him.

Sometimes he would find Ifan completely lost in pleasure, eyes closed, tasting the divine moment while biting his lower lip or panting; other times, he would meet his eyes, those beloved warm green eyes where the Source flashed intensely with each thrust. And in those moments — when Sandor needed him the most to fight his darkest personal memories— Ifan would smile at him when the pleasure prevented him from articulating any endearing word. And in that smile and the gentle glint of those green eyes full of lust and care, Sandor would always find the best tool to put Ferx and his past torture aside.

However, such intense emotions were not innocuous. Under those strong emotional moments, Sandor had begun to frequently lose his control over his Source and let it flow, using Ifan's body as a conduit. 

The first time that Ifan had accidentally received all that amount of energy in the middle of the sex, he had gasped with fear, as Sandor's Source blended with his own in a swirling dance of cracks all over his skin. It had been intense as the rush of adrenaline he used to experience before shooting at a hard-to-find target. It had been scary, like those terrible moments in which his mind had been a prisoner of Rhalic. It had been extremely euphoric as the sensation of being filled with Source began to sync with the physical act, turning the magical effect obscenely carnal.

However, it did not take much time for Ifan to get used to the engulfing sensation. The acceptance of that raw invasion of Source had transformed their lovemaking and made it thousands of times more delightful for him. And truth be told, the experience had also unexpected side effects beyond pleasure: over the passing days, Ifan had started to feel stronger the more he was over-flooded with this not-so-foreign Source in his body. Despite being a master of Source and a Godwoken, all those years of flickering Source and endless fights had naturally exhausted his Source capacity to the point that he had forgotten how it used to feel his pool at its fullest. Who would have imagined the feeling would be restored in a bed, with a wizard of disturbing eyes and dry brittle lips?

Sandor's hands were firm around Ifan's waist, pushing and pulling his own hips into Ifan's, softly moaning with the movement. He had his eyes squinted — in part as a way to reduce their disturbing effect on Ifan — while the pleasure was throbbing in his ears, and goosebumps were spreading all over his skin. His white frizzy fringe was damped in his own sweat, getting stuck on his forehead and temple.

Both of them had many tendrils of Source intensely glowing under their glistening skin; the small drops of sweat sliding along their bodies reflected part of the glow coming from the Source cracks, making them look like small crystal pearls. It was a beautiful detail that decorated their ritual of love. 

Pushing his hips, helped by his legs locked around Sandor's waist, Ifan deepened the penetration. "There, Sandy, keep it, keep it there." He said in a quivering voice, a bit more high-pitched than his usual one.

Sandor's Source kept pouring into his body, affecting Ifan's own Source core. Ifan could not explain it with details, since he was not a scholar, but the phenomenon felt as if his core were forced to get expanded, tight and painful while putting resistance to the excess of Source, but as soon as the moment passed by, and somehow his core managed to make a little more of room, a sudden sensation of relief overwhelmed him. But that sensation would last just several lusty thrusts, until the feeling of being full and unable to receive more Source would crush him again. It was a process that kept repeating itself without end, filling him with a bit of fearly tension, a lot of thrill, and a vast amount of pleasure.

Ifan could not decide what was more overwhelming; if the Source, filling him to the brim, or the raw physical ecstasy of Sandor’s thrusts inside him, or maybe it was Sandor's soft moans each time he went deeper into him — beautiful rare sounds he was not used to hear since Sandor had always been too silent in bed — . Or perhaps it was the unique picture of Sandor over him, lustly gorgeous in his own way despite his changes, energetic yet caring.

It was impossible to remain unaffected by the unusual picture of Sandor savouring the moment fully. Sandor kept closing his eyes every time the eye contact lasted too long, frown raised in delight and concentration, while his lower lip trembled. Sometimes he gasped too loud, biting those lips when his noises were too high.  _ For the Fallen, that Sandor was gorgeous, _ Ifan thought. He had never seen him this way, and this discovery increased his excitement even more.

"Open... open your eyes, Sandy...” A sudden trembling gasp interrupted his words, as he closed his own eyes for a second, unconsciously, feeling yet another wave of Source coming in, at the same time that a thrust did so. “For me. Please." Ifan swallowed and moaned to release with sounds all the sweet tension engulfing his body. 

Shy, fearing he could break the intensity of the moment, Sandor did as he was asked in a languorous pace. Ifan felt his body explode when Sandor slid his hand along his sex and began to jerk it off, in an attempt to reduce the effect of his eyes. Ifan pressed his lips tightly, letting his cries get stuck in his throat. Their rhythm sped up a bit more, and another wave of Source filled him in. Those white eyes were flashing in Source as well.

It was so much of pleasure and power and magic, that something inside Ifan awoke, unable to resist any longer. It was a frantic desire, almost animal, that produced a suspension of his thoughts. His mind went blank, unable to understand anything around him while thousands of memories of oily hands, and old pages, and twisted icy eyes, and seas observed from windows, and corridors filled with heartbreaking screams crossed his mind. Ifan could not react to any of those memories, he could only let them pass through him in the form of sensations and unrelated images. His eyes glowed intensely with Source as well while his panting accelerated. Some spasms moved his legs against his will, compressing Sandor, making the penetration deeper. The erratic movement of his hip was giving the last warning. He was at the edge of frenzy.

"I can't... anymore," Sandor said, his panting as chaotic as Ifan's.

Ifan tried to tell him to go on, but he could only grunt, grinded teeth, digging his head against the mattress and his fingers on Sandor's shoulders. He felt his own Source turn wildly violent, and his skin softly burnt with the excess of it. He could not be filled with more Source and yet, Sandor's Source kept coming in, unstoppable, like the flashes of fragmented memories kept doing so.

He languorously cried out, moaning in a faltering way. His pool, somehow, kept expanding. He was completely drowned in that wonderful dangerous feeling of losing control that Ifan loved so much. It had been a long while since he had felt so safe in such a fragile limit.

Unable to resist the sharp and lustful moans made by Sandor combined with his thrusts, frantically hitting him, Ifan’s voice finally came out, desperate, repeating Sandor's name as if his throat were strangled. He was almost there, stubbornly denying himself to reach the peak waiting for Sandor. 

He managed to release Sandor's shoulders from the unintentional yet aggressive grip that his fingers were imprinting on that fragile body, and grabbed the blankets, crumpling them around his hands closed in tight fists. Small arcs of Source jumped to the air from the tendrils spread on his skin, crackling sounds filling the passionate atmosphere. By the sound of Sandor's moans, and the last rough intense thrusts, Ifan knew he was not the only one almost there.

Sandor's last energetic movements and his cry drowning in the middle of his throat were the final signs that confirmed he had come, overwhelming Ifan with a last potent wave of Source. Ifan's spine arched, and a strange sound escaped his lips. It came out husky and lustful and a bit painful. He was exhausted from receiving Source. His body twitched several times, coming in Sandor's hand, and some last arcs of Source jumped from their bodies to the air, giving them extra relief. 

Ifan's hands immediately relaxed, the same as his legs now resting by Sandor’s sides. He remained collapsed on the mattress, immobile, recovering his breath. Sandor gasped intermittently, while his body, trembling because of the effort of the whole situation, fell on Ifan's. His sweaty fringe caressed Ifan's sensitive chest, tickling it. Ifan shivered. Both of them, dizzy and overheated by all the intensity, could not process any thought yet. Their minds were still blank while their bodies looked for recovery desperately. 

Ifan squeezed his rear, just to feel Sandor's sex still inside him, and smiled content. Sandor was not hard anymore. That night had been one of those rare in which Sandor reached his pleasure without resorting to strange disturbing yet delightful spells. 

With his mind slowly working again, Ifan looked at the bedside table, checking for the piece of rosewood burning slowly on a plate. It was at its half. The room had a thin layer of smoke that offered a fresh scent which masked the acrid odours of sweat and sex that Sandor hated so much. Another of the many habits that he had missed in those last years but now, recovered, had a new sense of belonging. 

Before resting, there was still another thing to take care of. Ifan took a piece of cloth from the bedside table, avoiding to move his body, and carefully cleaned Sandor's hand. 

With all the details checked, and still feeling his husband struggling to recover, Ifan placed a hand on Sandor's shoulder blade and another, on his nape, scratching it fondly. 

Sandor's light body on him felt so good. This time more than ever. That small room was such a peaceful and pleasant shelter in the middle of a world falling apart. Its purple tone or the cold atmosphere he used to perceive in it before were now completely extinguished.

Still hot and damped by their sweat, Ifan hugged Sandor with his legs, pulling him against him a bit more. Ifan let a hiss escape from his lips, the pressure inside him had touched a spot that made his body complain. It was not unexpected, though. Everything in his body was extremely over sensitive and sore. His veins filled with Source were only now starting to fade, slowly. Ifan kept caressing Sandor's nape, while the latter sighed, finally recovered from his own rare climax. 

Sandor lifted his face to see Ifan, as drowsy as him. They smiled at each other, languorously caressing their tired bodies. 

“Kiss?” Sandor asked, tilting his head. 

Humming, Ifan nodded, releasing Sandor from his loving leg-hug to let him move and reach his lips. Damned height difference.

Moving slowly, Sandor climbed on him and kissed him dearly. The marriage mark filled Ifan's belly with thousands of imaginary butterflies. Ifan moaned with a shade of complaint, tired of so many and so intense sensations that had been engulfing his body in the last hour. He certainly could not endure more pleasure anymore.

“Are you okay?” Sandor whispered, leaving some pecks on Ifan's beard.

Ifan hummed, hugging him. He liked so much those moments, the satisfaction—almost exhaustion— after sex, Sandor's body weight, his skin against his despite its condition. Ifan shuddered as the Source inside his body still moved along. Several Source cracks glowed suddenly on his skin disappearing as soon as they appeared moving from his temples down along his neck and chest. The excess of Source was still finding its way inside his body. 

Sandor drew back a bit, worried by it, a hand cupping Ifan's cheek. He inspected his eyes. There was still a dense remnant of Source in them which gave them a greener and more vivid glow. 

Like Ifan usually performed his own routine to check Sandor after their lovemaking, Sandor had recently developed his own to be sure Ifan was unharmed after receiving his vast waves of Source. He would check his pulse and eyes, and would ask him to follow with his eyes the movement of his fingers in the air. Although there had been no side-effects so far, beyond Ifan’s strengthening, he could never be completely sure. Never in his life Sandor had read about this phenomenon. 

As usual, everything looked fine. Somehow, Ifan always accepted Sandor's Source without problem, blending it with his own and increasing his Source pool. Maybe it was only natural since Sandor had revived him at the edge of death, filling him with his Source in a violent way. Truth be told, Ifan's current Source was more Sandor's than his own. He was aware of it since it used to reach his consciousness with a lot of unknown information that Ifan was not sure how to use. Most of the time they were fragments of texts in languages he did not know, sometimes strange memories of solitude that seemed to be his own. It was not unexpected. After all, Source was the means to transference memories and soul experiences.

So that it could not be abnormal that part of Sandor's incredible capacity to increase his own pool would have been transferred to Ifan via his Source. Or maybe it was the natural behaviour of Source cores, as Sandor suspected. In any case, Ifan could not care less about the Source transference that allowed him to feel stronger after every lovemaking session. That fact, he was convinced, could never be a bad omen, no matter how cruel his waxing moon were.

* * *

“Are you paying attention?” Fane said, poking Ifan's head with his bony finger. 

“I do, I do!” Ifan grunted, looking down at the map spread on the table. He huffed, while by his side, DeSelby energetically nodded at the Eternal, crossed arms.

“It is of vital importance to place these mirrors in  _ these _ points.” Fane said; the same bony finger tapped different places on the map.

Ifan rolled his eyes. He still could not make peace with the fact that they were going to use those cursed artefacts. 

Sandor, Tarquin, and Infirma, with Fane’s help, had recently finished hundreds of functional mirrors to build a complex mirror system, probably Rivellon's fastest means of transportation that had ever existed. Now, it was needed to place them in the most strategic points all over the map. They had to cover extensive distances such as the Ancient Empire, far Western of Rivellon, or beyond the South of the Balurik Isles. The attack of demons or the entrance of the Child to this realm could happen at any moment in any place, so they had to be sure to cover all the map and beyond.

Using only the flying machine, the mission was going to take almost a year to accomplish. Places like Balurik Isles or Aleroth were too distant cities to go from one to another. They did not have that much time at their disposal, considering the dense amount of cracks that their constantly dark skies had acquired lately. That was why Malady and Zandalor were going to travel with the Guardians aboard the Flying Machine, and teleport it through the Hall of Echoes to cover the distances more easily. If they required Source for the task, the monolith system would provide it everywhere, now that Tarquin and Sandor had complete control on it. The plan was solid. 

“Yes, it is of great importance to place them where the ancient portals were once. Cyseal and Luculla (*) most likely will still have ruins around those portals, they would be easy to spot. Such points are extremely stable. We need to be sure that the mirrors will not break easily,” Sandor said, looking at Ifan, “They demanded a lot of efforts and accidental sacrifices. Let them be of vital use to us.” He sighed, lowering his eyes to see the map and pointed to the North of Rivellon. “These mirrors have strong magical shields to protect them, but they are not invulnerable. We need to be sure that the now confused lizard army and the Voidwoken, would not like to waste time and energy in destroying them. We need them to be a little hidden, too.”

“We'll do, we'll do.” Ifan said, his arms akimbo, his face twisted slightly in disapproval. Those damn mirrors had always been a headache. 

“What's the estimated time to accomplish the mission?” Gareth asked, looking at Tarquin. 

“Under wonderful conditions, such as no attacks from Voidwoken or demons, or undead, or Void-corrupted beasts, or spies, or...dragons...” Tarquin shook his head, tired of his own enumeration, “It would be less than a month.”

“And with some delays?” Gareth twisted his lips. 

Tarquin looked at Sandor, who shrugged, “Six months? Maybe more. Depends on how weak you fight.” His look fell upon Ifan.

“I trust there will be fighters in a really good condition to face any danger.” Sandor said, smiling at Ifan who blushed a little bit, almost imperceptibly, “Always check the monolith map. Spot them first, before landing in each place, so you can replenish your energies and Source in case of exhaustion. I'll keep the network full and flowing.”

The last sentence tensed Ifan's face. “Take care of yourself, don't exhaust you.”

Sandor nodded in silence. 

After the end of the meeting, DeSelby grabbed all the maps and headed to the Flying machine, while Sandor walked by Ifan's side. They stopped at the docks. The five groups of Guardians were already walking in and out of the deck, carrying some provisions, giving their goodbyes to their loved ones, contemplating with a layer of resignation the vast ocean ahead. 

Ifan turned to see Sandor and caressed his cheek gently. They smiled at each other with sadness. 

“Take care out there.” Sandor said, lifting his own hands to reach the amulet wrapped around Ifan's neck. He filled it with Source and patted Ifan's chest afterwards. “And be careful with dreams. Jahan had done a wonderful job shielding the Keep, but in the rest of Rivellon, you will face many temptations coming from demons. You... you are a beacon to them, remember that.”

Ifan sighed, completely aware of the deep dangers that his  _ Dhaleram _ condition meant. He lent in and nuzzled in Sandor's hair, kissing his temple, his cheek, his nose, and ended in his lips. A slow, languorous kiss. He bit gently Sandor's lips, enjoying the intense effervescence he always felt in his stomach when kissing him. That mark in his lips was the best proof to distinguish a false Sandor from the real one. No demon could emulate that magic. 

“Don't worry. I'm much better.” Ifan extended his hands in the air, in front of Sandor. Sometimes, they trembled, slightly. It was not a constant violent movement anymore, since the stress of the abstinence had finally receded. Now he could feel himself in charge of his own body. “I'm really good at rejecting temptations when big things are at stake.” He hugged Sandor, squeezing him strongly. “I'll miss you, dear.”

“Stay safe.” Sandor took from a pocket of his belt a couple of scrolls, recently made, and gave them to Ifan. 

Ifan frowned as he took them. “What's this?”

“A particular polymorph spells, in case you  _ miss _ me much.”

Ifan laughed fully, face and ears red, and softly hit Sandor's head with the scrolls. “The revenge of the ichor will never end, uh?”

“Never.”

Ifan looked at him for a long moment, cupping Sandor's neck. He was focused on memorizing that face for the last time. If this was their goodbyes, if this was going to be their last moment together, it was truly good. Not like that time in Arx. 

He kissed Sandor for the last time and left the docks to sail immediately, keeping those scrolls in the back of his belt.

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Cyseal and Luculla’s portals** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin ](http://orcz.com/Divinity_Original_Sin:_Cyseal_Beach_South_Waypoint_Portal) ]: These places can be found in the central/west part of the [ [ Map ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/40304570) ]. Cyseal is the main city in which Divinity: Original Sin game starts and the forest of Luculla is the adjacent area to it. In both places there are magical portals that have no resemblance to the waypoint shrines we found in Divinity:Original Sin II, so I considered them part of the tools to merge with this weird concept of the black mirrors, in this horrible failed attempt to craft some artificial consistency among the several games of Divinity and its lore.

  
  



	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

Ifan and his Guardians returned after five months. It was easy to infer that their mission had not lacked problems. Some swarms of Voidwoken—now attacking in more random ways since they had lost Das Vapour’s leadership—kept giving them hard encounters more often than not, especially in the North.

For the worse, during those months, a radical decrease of the Veil caused a lamentable event all over Rivellon. It was called the demonic epidemic and it was not easy for those living outside the Keep. Each night dream of those months had been plagued by demons, consuming people's vital energy or tempting them to offer their bodies to willing possessions.

The demonic presence was so strong that Ifan could even hear the evil whispers in the back of his mind during his wakefulness. Those were hard enemies to fight. They did not stop with a sword across their chest; it was all about strong will in times when it was at its weakest. They had thought they could respire of the demonic pressure when Malady teleported the flying machine to the Hall of Echoes, but to their surprise, the intensity of their presence was more powerful. In a few weeks, they lost three Guardians that had succumbed to the temptations of the demons and had to be killed out of mercy. That had taken a heavy toll on their morale; especially on Ifan, in whose mind a deep fear nestled, crawling in each thought, telling him he would be the next.

Despite the obstacles, they had accomplished their mission. At least the mirror system was functioning like a charm, in the same way the monolith network was, as they could corroborate several times when they had to win entire zones swarmed by Voidwoken to guarantee the safety of the mirrors. Now, they could jump from any point to another in Rivellon in just seconds and drain Source from the system if they were low, giving them an impressive and potent tactical advantage over their enemies despite the numbers.

Meanwhile, in the Keep, Sandor kept feeding the Source network, channelling his power into it, careful enough not to blast nor burn his own energy. Only pouring the necessary quantity to keep him balanced. It was the  _ ideal  _ situation of feeding the Source network.

But it was that; _ ideal _ .

Such a disturbing word for Sandor. During a battle, he would not have the luxury of channelling his Source in a controlled way. In a more realistic situation, he would keep feeding the system even when he was empty of any bit of Source. To maintain the Source network’s levels constant would force him to feed it until depletion, increasing his recovery rate. In less time than usual, he would recover a sizeable amount of Source that would be immediately poured into the system as soon as it was available. The cycle of complete depletion and sudden recovery was a terrible prospect in the near future; he knew his body would never resist that process unharmed.

He shuddered at that possibility. He preferred to avoid thinking about it, and instead; he focused on the present. So far, feeding the system not only had enhanced the amount of Source circulating in it but also it had provided him enough balance to remain stable without blasting or holding his Source at its fullest. That, at least, was a good perk to delay and even stop the  _ endless cycle _ .

According to the last Das Vapour's plans written in his journals, in order to drag the whole Veil into the monolith system, Sandor had to acquire the constant flux of Source, working as if he were one of the monoliths: the origin of the system itself. Sadly, he was not too far away from that state. Any realistic setting would catapult him into it. It only needed three or four blasts to reach that point of no return. From that moment on, he would be completely doomed by his powers.

Now he could appreciate his tutor’s logistic skills at its finest. Das Vapour had planned everything so carefully without overlooking any detail. The only way to handle that immense power without dying was to become an undead. A condition that could only be granted, sometimes, by the God King, or in more general situations, by curses over tortured souls. 

Neither of those options was viable for him. Not that he liked them anyway. He preferred to stay among the living, his mortality never gave him too many conflicting existential sentiments. In fact, he deeply appreciated the ability of death to ceased any torture. It meant that any situation, no matter how bad it was, would always find an end. A natural, unavoidable end. It was a thought that filled him with relief, especially during his childhood. Sometimes life was too unbearable.

It was not an accident that, despite his wizard nature, he had always skipped the opportunity to perform the Amadia ritual and acquire an inhuman longevity. He was convinced that life had to end at some point, because otherwise, it was prone to twist the mind. Das Vapour or Lucian were the finest examples of it. 

Death was, indeed, a gift of nature. A big mercy.

But, for the moment, he preferred not to think about mortality anymore. He was not hiding the dirt under the rug; he was simply acknowledging that some things were bigger than him, and like many situations in his life, out of his control. Death would happen, eventually. It was a waste of time and energy to overthink about it. What was important was that, as soon as Malady and Ifan returned, they would have to call a council meeting and catch up with the news. The exchange of information about the situation all over Rivellon was vital. And they had to think on a plan. There was no more time for looking for allies, only to plan.

* * *

The first thing that Ifan wanted to do when he would put a foot on the Keep was to meet Sandor. But he did not need to wait much. When the flying machine anchored at the Keep’s docks, he could distinguish from the deck that small figure of white short hair in fancy robes, far away from the pier. His lips curved in a smile and a desperate joyful need for jumping the deck to meet the man sped up his heart.

As soon as Ifan strode on the dock, Sandor quickly walked among the people. Despite the dirt on his armour, the dry blood and ichor, and the smell of sweat and death due to months of fighting with little rest, they both locked each other in a tight embrace.

Ifan hugged him, squeezing him maybe too much. Sandor groaned inside the pressure of the hug, but did not complain. After all, it was Ifan’s nature; always vivid, energetic, and impulsive. However, as soon as Ifan heard a low groan, he released him not without nuzzling in his hair and cupping Sandor's cheeks. He looked at him, calm, savouring the victory over death and demons and ends-of-worlds that such a moment meant for both. All the muscles of his face relaxed and a fond smile curved his lips. He was observing him in detail, waiting for Sandor to make eye contact.

Of course, Sandor would avoid his eyes. Not because he would not love to look at them, but because he did not want to break the charm of the moment with the usual effect of his own Gheist look.

It was a pity, since Ifan’s mood was always particularly affectionate when he looked at him in that way. It was also when he gave him the sweetest kisses, Sandor’s favourite ones. But nothing impeded him to taste them right there. They did not need to see each other for that. So, avoiding eye contact, Sandor lent his weight on Ifan’s waist and reached his lips on tiptoes.

The kiss was as Sandor expected, without rush, slow and caring. It tasted of nostalgia and need, with shades of despair that had been intensified during those months, keeping them awake in restless nights, wondering if they would see each other once again. Languorously, Ifan devoured his mouth with the calm of a soft rainy day and embraced him dearly, pressing his body against his. Both moaned a little by the end of the kiss, and a slight fever spread over their bodies, raising a delicious goosebumps on their skins. Ifan remained for a second longer with his eyes closed, tasting the lingering feeling of those crazy butterflies burning their wings inside his belly.

“I missed you so much, darling.  _ So much _ .” Ifan whispered while opening his eyes again.

“Me too.” Sandor smiled at him.

Patting Ifan's chest while separating their bodies, Sandor pressed his own lips in a thin line to taste the remnants of the kiss, and straightened his body. “You are in an urgent need of a bath.” He wrinkled his nose several times, joking.

Chuckling, Ifan booped that slightly flat nose, and with their arms locked, they walked to their room.

Sandor prepared the bathtub while Ifan removed his clothes. While his hands were on the water's surface, magically warming it, Sandor observed Ifan, observed his body in the distance. His sharp eyes spotted every new scar of that mistreated body.

Noticing the intense look—now impossible to ignore due to its Gheist nature—Ifan approached him feeling a bit uncomfortable. Those white eyes of contracted pupils never stopped having that damned effect. They infused him with the same sense of danger that animals feel when nature roars before a catastrophe. No wonder why his senses were always warning him to run away from Sandor. Although it was unfounded, there was nothing to do; his instinct was always sharper and lacked any context.

Perceiving that unease, Sandor lowered his look and spoke softly, “You should clean your body first.”

Walking naked, Ifan approached him and cupped Sandor's cheeks, leaning in to kiss him, but Sandor recoiled a bit. Surprised, Ifan looked at him, curious. 

Ifan had dry dirt and rests of ichor and blood everywhere, emphasised by the acrid odour of many days of sweat. Now that the emotion of the meeting had worn off, Sandor found the smell unnerving. Something in it scratched past memories that he always fought not to project on Ifan. The smell had to be removed if Sandor wanted his mind to obey him.

"Um... don't take it personally, Ifan... but... Can I use a cleaning spell on you if you... are going to kiss me now?"

Ifan looked down at his own body and chuckled. He had to agree that he must be smelling terribly. It was understandable. They had endured too many battles non-stop. Cleaning their collapsed bodies was not in the short list of their priorities during those months. 

"I prefer to do it myself. I don't want to sneeze anymore for a long while..." He walked away, resigned to not have his kiss, and sat on a little stool, close to the bathtub, giving his back to Sandor. With a piece of fabric and soap, he started to rub his limbs energetically. "Those damn healers have been aiming for my face each time they wanted me to heal. I told them thousands of times not to do it... you can't imagine how hard it is to fight with a damn sneeze attack."

Sandor laughed, raising his sight and placing it on Ifan’s back, tenderly. Those fights had to be incredibly gory for his armour being so soaked in blood and ichor to the point to stain his old scars. 

"It must have been tough." Sandor said. 

Ifan shrugged. "It was… but… Not to brag, but I've got it worse."

Sandor exhaled loudly, blinking at how much worse that man had to have it to say  _ that _ so relaxed. He had never lived through the War against the Black Ring. By the time the conflict exploded, he was a secluded scholar in the Balurik Academy, far away from reality. Balurik isles always enjoyed a suspicious peace, living outside the turmoils of the world. Considering all what Sandor recently learnt about his former tutor, such peculiarity was only understandable now.

The silence fell for a moment, barely interrupted by the sound of water and of fabric rubbing against wet bare skin. The intimacy of the moment was so comfortable that Sandor approached Ifan and took the piece of fabric from his hands helping him to rub his back. There were remains of blood in some of the new wounds but also rest of grime on the older scars. 

While cleaning that skin, Sandor cast a restorative spell caressing Ifan's body with it. The spell would take care of the bad healed wounds, release the knots in his tensed and exhausted muscles, and warm his skin, now soaked and getting cold. Once finished, Sandor rinsed Ifan’s back and kissed his shoulder blades. Ifan's smile was impossible to hold.

“Now you can go into the tub.” Sandor said and helped him to sit in it. Ifan let a long moan escape his lips, relaxed by its hot water.

Sandor sat on the edge of the bathtub and kept his hand into the water, making it a bit hotter to maintain the relaxation in that tired body. With a silly smile stuck on his face during all that time, Ifan observed Sandor, enjoying in silence the comfort of having returned home, safe and sound, meeting again those left behind. 

Ifan took that hand that was drawing circles on the water, and caressed the skin beneath the sleeves of the robe. Like a dog pushing his snout against his master, asking him for his favourite petting, Ifan kept scratching Sandor's wrist and looking intensely at him.

Sandor raised an eyebrow and a shadow of a smile curved his lips. He knew that face was meant to ask for something. 

"What?" Sandor said. 

"What what?" 

"You want something. It’s written all over your face."

Ifan blushed a bit and looked down. "We never... took a bath together."

Sandor chuckled.

“Wanna join me?” Ifan said. 

“I've cleaned myself this morning.”

Surprised at first, Ifan blinked at that rejection. He thought he did not need to convince him, that the nostalgia and the uncertainty of meeting each other again was enough to have Sandor’s easy Yes. For a moment, Ifan was worried. But by the smile he glimpsed in Sandor's lips, he knew the damn man was just playing. So he played along. 

“Ah, there it goes the answer to a sensual invitation. You always have a particular skill to kill the mood, uh?” Ifan said.

Sandor splashed with his fingers a bit of water on Ifan's face. Challenged, Ifan scrubbed his eyes and splashed back to him. Maybe he did it with a little bit of too much strength, and a good amount of water, moved like a wave, ended up soaking Sandor's face and his entire robe. 

“Oops. What bad luck. You will get a cold. Why don’t you take a hot bath to avoid it?” Ifan smirked displaying in the vulpine gesture part of his pointy fangs. 

Pretending indignation, Sandor observed him for a moment, his lips twisted as a small dimple formed on his cheek. He sighed, as if he did not like to do it, and walked away to reach the desk on which several herbs were gathered. He took a branch of them, removed his robe and underwear, faster than usual, and headed to the bathtub. He threw the branch on the water and with a bit of help, he sat on one of Ifan's thighs, so their faces could be closer.

Ifan’s vulpine smile broadened. He liked that attitude, it gave him goosebumps all over his body. His arms received Sandor immediately, as his lips were pressed dearly on Sandor’s shoulder. 

The herbs in the water filled the room with an intense scent of pine, increasing the relaxation in both. Ifan closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. It made him remember the clearings of the forest. He leant in, resting his chin on Sandor’s shoulder. Ifan was enjoying the skin contact, something he truly resented in those months. As usual, free of any restriction when it was about Sandor in their privacy, he licked that shoulder, trying to reach emotions that, he knew, his tongue was incapable of. 

However, their years together had taught Sandor enough about Ifan's secret elven habits. He knew the man was prone to licking every time he did not know what to do with the intensity of his feelings, or when he felt lonely, in a vain attempt to connect with his partner deeply. Sandor always knew how meaningful it was for Ifan to give him the chance to emulate an elven tongue. So he let a small amount of Source surface all over his skin, bringing with it all the memories of his life during those last five months and allowed Ifan to see them. 

Ifan perceived the fear in Sandor, as the image of Sandor's hands were resting on a Source monolith, feeding the network. He also saw some pages of a romantic novel, probably one of those that Sandor used to read before going to sleep. And then, he sensed his own scent in a pillow, as the memory of Sandor hugging it, breathing in it, reached him. Ifan smiled

Grateful, Ifan hugged him tightly and kissed his jaw close to his ear. “Thank you, dear.” Ifan whispered.

Sandor traced Ifan's arms with his fingers stopping on the new scars. “You have many new ones.”

"Only the deepest ones left scars. Thankfully, we got good healers. Not as good as you, but... with the monoliths they managed well. But the hell they need to improve their aiming."

Chuckling, Sandor turned a bit to look at him, keeping one hand under the water and another on Ifan's chest.

They kissed during a long and steady moment, starting soft. The intensity increased, and in no time, they were truly devouring their mouths, pushing their bodies, holding each other in desperation. Sandor ended up cupping his beard and keeping his face exactly where he wanted while he kissed him exuberantly, as Ifan's arms tightened their contact around Sandor’s waist. At some point, they needed to stop, looking for breath, lovely observing each other.

"Damn, I missed you so much." Ifan said, his voice husky and lustful, his eyes could not decide whether to look at Sandor’s wet lips or dangerous eyes.

"I imagine you had no time for using the scrolls, right?" Sandor playfully said, trying to find a way to pull a joke at the expense of his husband.

However, that phrase broke the intensity of the moment, and a long silence followed by the sudden reddening of Ifan's cheeks. Sandor frowned as he connected ideas. Had Ifan no time to take a damn bath but he could use the scrolls?

Sandor laughed, unable to believe his husband's priorities, while Ifan rested his forehead on Sandor's shoulder as long as his laughter lasted. 

* * *

“According to our calculations, the Veil is going to be completely destroyed in five or six days.” Tarquin said. 

All the wizards on one side of the table looked down. The general morale was low. Like the group travelling around Rivellon, the demons had not reduced their activities to mere whispers and nightmares. A wave of massive possession of people all around Rivellon decimated the Guardian ranks, and put the ones who had been spared of the possession in a fragile position when they had to slay several comrades and innocent citizens in order to control the sudden epidemic. Jahan had offered his protections and spells to hold the situation, working all over Rivellon by using part of the active mirrors network for fast travelling, but the epidemic was too big for one person alone to control it. 

What was clear with that wave of possessions was that the Veil thinness could not hold longer. At the moment the Veil would crumble apart, minor demons would swarm Rivellon adding more problems to the ones that already existed: the leaderless remnant groups of Voidwoken, and the Child of Pandemonium, looking for the Legacy that the Veil had been masking until that moment. 

“Well. This is it.” Malady said, her voice tired, her eyes on the map table, covered now with Voidwoken and demon figures alike. “There is no more time to gather allies. This is the time for planning. We are expecting the destruction of the Veil in... a week, more or less. We are going to look at the Child face-to-face, finally. And to be honest, that probably will be the least of our problems. Demons, Voidwoken, and the God King would attack all at once. Has anyone a plan to deal with this level of disaster, which could have been prevented easily if any of you would have turned into a Divine?” She looked sharply at Ifan. 

Ifan rolled his eyes. “Can we kill the Child?” He said. 

“If this Child is more powerful than the Void Dragon millennia ago... I think we cannot.” Zandalor answered.

“Do we know how powerful it is?” Ifan asked, looking at Malady. 

She shook her head and sighed, “Do you think I would have been in so much trouble with all of you trying to convince you to take Divinity if I would know he is just like that ancient Void Dragon? Believe me, what I saw in the future, it's the end of every world. No Void Dragon can do that.”

“Empress Anatelle killed a Nadaer just by consuming it. Can't we do that again? Could the Mestre do that?” DeSelby said. 

Ifan scoffed, “Anatelle drank the creature and went mad, causing the worst war ever. It erased races, history and who knows what more in all Rivellon... do you think Sandor is the safest person to do that?” Ifan immediately looked at the wizard, “No offence.”

Sandor smiled, shaking his head. “Ifan is right. We cannot afford losing my mind. My body is too dangerous on its own already.”

“She lost her mind because her body was full of demonic essence. Unless you had had some affairs with any demon....” DeSelby said, cocking an eyebrow. 

Sandor squinted his eyes, “The Child will probably become strongly corrupted once he reaches this dimension. Minor demons are all sticking on the edge of realms, pushing to get into this one. Their essence is all around the thin mantle that protects this dimension. It will be corrupted anyway.”

DeSelby bit her lower lip and looked at the table, tapping her fingers. 

“We can't kill the Child, we can't consume him... Can we trap him?” Fane said. 

“The problem is where.” Arhu answered. “Besides, as Malady said, we are going to face the Child in a world with a weakened Veil. Demons and Voidwoken and...” his eyebrows shot up, “...more entities are going to come in. Creatures from thousands of different universes will want to come. Some to conquer, others out of curiosity, some-” Arhu sighed, scratching his head. “This is an utter disaster.”

Tarquin stood up from his chair, one hand resting over the other, on his stomach. He looked at every person present in the table; the long line of wizards on one side; Malady, Ifan, Lysanthir, and DeSelby on the other. Gareth was at its head. Tarquin remained silent, he always loved to build up suspense. 

“I’ve been thinking quite a lot during these last five months while the mirror system has been arranged, and we acquired more control on the Source network. Knowing their efficiency first-hand, a plan came to my mind... but, let’s first set the key pieces.” Tarquin rubbed his palms energetically and looked at the wizard of disturbing eyes. “It is conspicuous what Sandor’s role will be in this war. He will not be in the battlefield but in the Keep, controlling the core of the Source network.”

“Indeed.” Malady said. “Nobody else can do that.”

“Zandalor, Jahan, and Arhu are powerful Sourcerers able to utilise powerful shield magic.” He took some bloodstones(*) from his pockets and put them on the table. All the wizards gasped at the sight of those rare gems. “I’ve replicated these ancient crystals of power. Of course, Sandor here will help me infuse them with Source to strengthen them. With these, you, old wizards, will craft and sustain the shields that will shelter Rivellon’s major cities. I would suggest Diftwood, Cyseal, Aleroth, Ferol, Mezd, Ataraxia, and Balurik. These shields have to resist Vodiwoken, demons, and undead. The combination of your strongest spells will be inside the gems, and thanks to the Source poured into them, it will be sustained when you are not in the place, physically, to performing it.” He took the crystals and placed them on the map, “Each one in the principal cities, with you jumping from one city to the other to check if they are working properly. That’s my plan for the defence aspect. Now...” he paused again, a wicked smile on his lips, and looked at Gareth. “The High General will have to deal with the offensive in each of these cities.”

“We don't have so many numbers in the ranks to spread in seven cities after the massive possession.”

“It doesn't matter. You only need several messengers that can jump between mirrors to say which city has to be prioritised, focusing all your troops on the one being sieged. Meanwhile, the wizards and the gems will sustain the defence in the other cities.”

Ifan rubbed his face, “Good strategy, indeed. But the level of exhaustion due to the use of Source would not allow us to keep that rhythm for more than... I don't know, ten hours. Source ashes will kick us hard.”

Lysanthir smiled, “We can use the ritual of Saheila to temporarily offer her  _ Gift  _ to some of you. The Source ashes do not exist in that trance, but once you are free of it... well... you will feel them eventually, all at once. Let’s hope everything is finished by that time.”

Ifan’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked at Lysanthir. “Can she share it with humans?”

Lysanthir nodded. “With anyone. The effect is softer and the prediction chance sometimes fails in non elves, but it’s something. At least, the pain of Source ashes disappears, allowing you to go on and on.”

Tarquin clapped slowly, “Wondrous. The main commanders cannot use that ritual, because we require them to discern reality as it is. But the rest of the soldiers could be utilised as puppets of Saheila. Sounds good.”

Lysanthir frowned at him, “It's not a puppet thing. Respect that.”

Tarquin showed his palms to the elf, without saying a word, as a gesture of apologies. Then, he continued. “So far, the defence and the offensive of Rivellon is already assured with this. Now... my main idea is... we are expecting the attack to be in a week. I think that we can only survive if we have the surprise element on our side.”

“How could we have that?” Malady asked curiously, her index finger resting on her chin. An intense glint appeared in her golden eyes.

“What if we take all the Source of the World, just to preserve it, in an Aeteran (*), like Lucian endeavoured to do.”

“Are you insane?!” Ifan widened his eyes, his fingers suddenly nailing the table. 

“We have _ the living Aeteran _ , a wonderful one that has no limit, increasing always its capacity, and it is more puissant than ever, now that he can find support in the monolith network. If we do this before the time everything falls apart, we may have a chance.”

Sandor swallowed hard, eyes open wide, looking at him in shock.

That intensity of his eyes was perceived by Tarquin, who looked at him, bravely enduring that disturbing look, “I know what you are thinking, my friend Mestre. But as I said, I think you will be able to manage beyond your physical limits thanks to the Source network. You can drain all the Source and conduit it there. You will be like a mere means, until the system is full. From that moment on… well. You will figure it out.”

“Wonderful, you want the Veil to be completely removed, not just weakened?! And what are you thinking to do with the God King? Without Veil, he will rush into this world. With his Eternals, no less.” Fane said, a hint of mockery twisting his voice. “Rivellon and Nemesis are going to be... completely open to each other. I don't think your demonic friend can control all the major demons when they see such a free passage to this world.” Fane added looking at Malady for a moment, then he returned to Tarquin, “Besides, the Child of Pandemonium entering without resistance when we have no idea what to do with it? Seriously...”

Tarquin chuckled. “The child of Pandemonium has a particular taste for me. I can lure it into the same plane where the God King resides. Then, he may sense the God King's essence and proceed to follow him instead. There is also the potential for him to end up fighting against each other. Either case, it's a win-win situation. About the demons, as I have just expressed, we have the tools and tactics to cover that aspect. Rivellon has to keep fighting them all that time while there is no Veil in the world.”

Everyone remained silent for a moment, shocked by the madness of such a plan.

DeSelby frowned, “Why would the Child want to chase after the God King?”

“We discussed this time ago, with Zandalor. The God King may be his father, according to my book. The Child should sense the Nadaer essence in him. However, it could be too corrupted as well, so there is a possibility for the Child to never identify him. But both entities are... quite destructive, so they will fight. They have to.  _ I hope they do _ . Who will win? I do not know. I am not sure I should care.” Tarquin said. 

Sandor blinked after a moment of consideration. “So.. are you... are you going to become the bait to make the Child follow you to the God King’s plane? And then what?”

“And then, you will drain all the Source from the network, every bit. And you will do what Lucian did not: close the Veil. Once and for all. You probably will require to activate all the monoliths spread over Rivellon, and drain us all as well. Just scarcely.”

Sandor gasped, his eyes wide open worsened his terrifying look. Everyone else snapped their heads to the necromancer, shocked. 

“Please, do not be over dramatic.” Tarquin added, waving his wrist, “According to my calculations, everyone is a Sourcerer now. You will drain  _ just a bit _ from everyone, instead of a huge amount from a few, as Lucian has been doing for years. I do not believe that anyone would die. Well, at least not by the draining anyway. Demons, Voidwoken, Lizards, Undead, being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he shrugged, “There will be many, many other ways to die. But from Source-draining? No. I do not think so.”

Tarquin’s smile lingered on his face, darting his eyes to Lysanthir. The gesture hid a subtle threat. Only in that moment Lysanthir understood that it was another lie. Another as the many ones that Tarquin had used along his life to accomplishing greater things. He remembered that conversation when Tarquin had shown the Gheist in the council meeting for the first time.

_ I had to said that so they would relax their stupid moral. Morality sometimes is a stone in the middle of the road. You have to pass through that road, you have no options. So, instead of blowing out that stone, people try to surround it, pretending it was never there. Why bother? We need to pass through anyway. If we don't deal with that, someone else will, eventually. We are only leaving the problem to another one.  _ _ We have to be responsible people, don't you think? _

Lysanthir looked down and remained silent. 

“And what about you? If Sandor restores the Veil in that moment, you will be trapped in the God King’s realm. Are you going to sacrifice yourself for Rivellon’s sake? That’s… unexpected.” Malady said with a sardonic smile on her face. 

“I have, despite everyone’s expectations, a golden heart that can be counted on when there are such preponderant matters at stake.”

Ifan scoffed. “Sure you have.”

“Well, if this is the best plan we have... uh...” Malady said observing everyone, “So… let’s rest for a couple of days and … and stick to this crazy plan if nothing new comes up. Until then… just enjoy the last days of Rivellon as we know it.”

The meeting finished and everyone left the room in a lugubrious silence.

* * *

In the morning, or what it could be considered as such given the permanent darkness of the world, Sandor felt the sleep slide away while a heavy weight pressed his body. His mind rushed to some lost fragments of his past and made him awake suddenly. However, the soft scent of herbs and the calmness of the room did not allow his first impression to control him. He tried to breathe, removing long strands of hair spread all over his face and rubbed his eyes. Some hair irritated his nose and sneezed twice. His chest hurt. In fact, he was struggling to breathe.

No wonder why. Ifan was on him, covering him with his heavy body, hiding his face in the crook of Sandor’s neck, his long hair spread everywhere, an arm by his side, the other under Sandor’s neck. Sandor had forgotten how clingy Ifan used to be in bed during times of great tension, always looking for the soothing warmth of the pack.

Maybe it was the calmness of the moment or the herbal scent in that hair that, despite being uncomfortable, did not make Sandor react and reject that body. The dark memories of his past that had forbidden Ifan to lay on him for years were there, present, but they were now worn-out remembrances that had not the strength they used to. He smiled again, content with the revelation for a second time.

Since the moment in which Gregorio’s memories blended with his own and allowed him to explore, with Ifan, limits he had been avoiding for years, Sandor found part of the healing he had always desired. A healing he never could manage as a child, as a teenager, or as a young adult. A healing he never thought he could gain. Who would have imagined that he would finally acquire it in his mature age? It was not as if the damage had never existed. On the contrary, it had left deep scars and bad habits that would certainly never change, but at least now he had control over them. Maybe it was never too late to heal, as many of the novels he had read used to claim.

He lifted his arms around Ifan, caressing his nape and back. The only annoying thing in that position was the suffocation that seemed to increase over time. His ribs could not expand enough.

“Ifan...” He whispered. 

As usual, considering his sleep was always light, Ifan immediately woke up and moved his face. His eyes were small, lazy, barely focusing on Sandor's. It took him a moment to realise he was completely on him. All muscles tensed at once, he lifted his torso with both arms, looking with expectation at Sandor's commands.

“Hell, I'm sorry. I didn't... I was sleeping...”

Sandor smiled, caressing Ifan's cheek, “I know. It's fine, I just wanted you to move a bit.” He sighed, pressing some of his ribs finding relief in breathing freely, “Too much weight .”

Ifan lay on his side, close to Sandor, and hid his face in his neck. That position, without annoying bending or too much stretching, was only easy in bed. So he embraced Sandor by his waist while nuzzling his neck without caring for their height difference.

“No bad memories?” Ifan said in a low tone.

“No.”

Ifan smiled. They remained silent for a moment.

“It's between today and tomorrow, right?” Ifan said, his scarred fingers running along Sandor's chest.

“Mn. Let's make the best of it.” Sandor's words stopped clearing his throat, “and... I need you to promise me something, Ifan.”

“Mn?” Ifan lifted his head. Without fear, he met those dreadful eyes. 

“If everything goes bad, and... I fall-”

“Don't.”

“Ifan, we need to talk about this...” Sandor whispered, looking at him with his raised frown, feeling the pain of the possibility as much as him. 

“Are you asking me to simply accept that you are going to die?  _ Again _ ?”

“If I reach the estate of constant flux, I hardly believe my body would resist much. It's too much Source. And not using that Source is not an option. I'll move the Source of the Veil in and out.”

Ifan looked aside, his lips pressed in a thin line. He sighed deeply and loudly. “So what?”

Sandor smiled at him, caressing Ifan's cheek with the back of his fingers. “If I fall, and you survive-”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you always do, and I hope it will remain the same.” Sandor looked at him dearly. However, a hint of a gentle threat weaved his tone. Sandor sighed after some seconds, “Let me finish...”

“Sorry...”

“If I fall, and you survive, I want you to promise me that you are not going to drown yourself in some... bad behaviour.  _ Again _ . Guardians will still need a kind commander, and a good leader. We are doing all these sacrifices in order to have a world where to live. And this will not end all its problems. Just the biggest ones. Rivellon will still be Rivellon.”

Ifan twisted his lips and looked aside. He hated to listen to those words. Words of loss and darkness by the brightest ray of light that his life had had lately. 

“Don't do... what you did before. Find someone to love again, cherish your friends,  _ clean your sins _ .” 

Ifan raised an eyebrow, his eyes darted at Sandor. 

“You always said it. You were going to use the rest of your life to amend your mistakes. Keep fair to those words. But enjoy life.” Sandor said.

Ifan's rebel tears escaped from the corner of his eyes. “You are incredibly cruel.”

“I know.” Sandor smiled nervously, wiping out Ifan's tear while his own fell freely, “I come from Balurik, don't you remember?” Both smiled hollowly. “So, please, Ifan... promise me this.”

Ifan did not say anything, instead, he nuzzled Sandor's neck, kissing him, reaching his lips. A kiss desperate and wet, orphan and needy. 

“Do you want...  _ some Source _ ?” Sandor asked, knowing that Ifan was not going to promise anything. There was no point in torturing him with the question any longer.

Ifan chuckled, blushing just a little bit. “I know I used to say it made no sense to make love when a big battle is coming but...”

“We rested already. This is morning, I guess.” Sandor said, frowning at the small windows. The darkness showed no moon in the sky. “It's not like we are going to waste our hours of sleep.”

“You are always so good with excuses.”

“Balurik style.”

* * *

* * *

  
  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and  [ Series Notes  ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) .

**Aetera(n)** [  [ Divinity Original Sin II  ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/quest/the-aeteran/) ]: device of an infinite capacity for Source that could purge the whole world. It is said that it had been created by Eternals.

**Bloodstones ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin ](https://divinity.fandom.com/wiki/Star_stone) ]: Also known as starstones. They were a quest item in Divinity: Original Sin, which contained Source power and could be used to harm or heal. Once used, they become inert, and can be infused with blood or Source magic to activate them into either a blood or star state, respectively. For the sake of brevity, I only used the concept of bloodstones as magical crystals that can contain a colossal amount of Source.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

> _ Recommended loop of music to read this chapter: _
> 
> _ [ Fearless Motivation - Persistence - Song Mix (Epic Music) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18dcF-mhrrU) _
> 
> _ [ Fearless Motivation - Revelations - Song Mix (Epic Music) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWKdutjGX7s) _
> 
> _ [ Fearless Motivation - Unleash Your Greatness - Song mix (Epic Music) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPMLxZnk65g) _
> 
> _ [ Eternal Eclipse - Shape of Lies ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=181DywaS5eY) _
> 
> _ [ Fearless Motivation - Can't Kill Will - Extended Song Mix ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLjXbJ77-vg) _
> 
> _ [ Fearless Motivation - Who Am I? - Song Mix (Epic Instrumental) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6uZJhnyczA) _

That morning, in the main bailey of the Keep, a sizeable group of Guardians from all points of Rivellon was gathered in a formation of several lines, facing Saheila. Her Elven warriors mirrored that same formation behind her, all of them already recovered from the Gift’s side effects. They were ready, once again, to fight in the middle of the madness that Saheila could guide them in and out. But now, they would not be the only ones to have the Gift.

According to the plan, she was going to offer a light version of the Gift to the non-elven races. But in doing so, they had to assist and be part of a particular ritual. 

In front of the formations, Saheila slit her palm with a dagger and held it over a cauldron where her blood drops blended with the preparation. A dense Source steam emanated from it, as her elven incantation gave it shape. Infirma, by her side, kept stirring the concoction. 

As soon as the preparation was ready, the Guardians proceeded to drink a spoon of it, immediately feeling Saheila’s control over them. Some of them had to be retired from the bailey, as a sudden paranoia assaulted them, overwhelmed by the sensation of extreme danger in Saheila’s hands. It was understandable. All of them claimed to hear a constant murmur of Saheila’s voice inside their minds, commanding the success of the elves over every race. It infused them with an image of an Elven Empire as aggressive as the Lizards’. It was the prophecy (*).

Saheila explained that those whispers were her own scars; the result of Mother Tree’s control engraved in her mind after centuries of repetition. The voice was there, impossible to silence, but she had no intention to act on behalf of the late Mother Tree’s desires. The explanation only caused more worry among the Guardians who had not drunk the preparation yet. However, this Gift was a tool too important to put aside, no matter the dangers it embodied; there was no turning back. Despite their rejection, most soldiers ended up accepting the concoction.

Once every fighter was under Saheila’s mind control, they returned to their assigned cities. Infirma put in flasks the rest of the preparation to give each to every high rank Guardian. Although the primary plan consisted in keeping them clean of any control so they would see the reality as it was unfolding, it was an excellent idea to have a last-resource tool that they could use before a fragile situation. Failure or success, sometimes, depended on a second, on a last effort, on a scrap of strength where there were none. Such little extras to turn the events on their favours could be got with a single handy trick kept in a flask.

Zandalor, Arhu, and Jahan infused their powers in each of the bloodstone, and using the mirror system, they placed them in each city. They also raised a thick shield anti-demons and anti-voidwoken over each of them, sustained by the Source present in those bloodstone but as well by their own energy. This meant they would not be able to fight at any flank. Maintaining those shields alone was going to exhaust them, especially if the big battle was going to last long.

In the Keep, Tarquin closed the last shackles around Sandor’s wrists. The wizard was sitting on the ground, in the centre of a circular arrangement of six monoliths inside a big cage. Sandor winced at the discomforting feeling of slowly connecting his own Source with the rest from the network; the sudden leak of Source in his body was immediately filled with a massive amount of energy. He shivered. As usual, the process felt like a rush of fever.

“You are key, Sandor.” Tarquin said, looking for something in his pocket. 

“I know. But… do you think this cage will resist?” Sandor looked up. The anti-Source cage covering the arrangement was supposed to work as a shield in case of blasts. But Sandor could feel that his future blasts were going to be too out of scale for those thin bars to resist. 

“You will be the only one inside the Keep’s walls. The rest of the Guardians will resist outside of it or in the cities. This cage will contain just enough of your blasts not to make the whole fort fall apart. As a matter of your own protection, as I said, some Guardians will fight around the Keep. About demons… Well, thanks to Jahan, the Keep has a powerful protection against them. So you will not require defence at all. And to be honest with you, my dear fellow, it is a safety measure, for all of us, to isolate you. You could endanger whoever is around you.”

Sandor sighed, barely holding the tears in his eyes, lost in his fateful thoughts, when Tarquin placed a necklace — beside the one with his marriage ring — around his neck. Sandor blinked. It was a medallion of a black triangle.

“What’s this?” Sandor said.

“Ah. Nothing… I require that triangle always imbued in Source, do you understand? Since you are now a component of the monolith network, I assume it will not demand your focus, so no need to think about it, it is-”

The heavy doors of the chambers moved. Tarquin and Sandor snapped their heads to see the intruder. It was Ifan, wearing the heaviest armour of the Guardians. A shield on his back, two swords by his sides. Tarquin did not finish his words and left the chamber with a respectful nod at Ifan.

Ifan walked slowly, the sadness in his eyes translated as a heavy weight on his shoulders. He entered the cage, squatted before Sandor, a hand placed on his knee, and observed around. Long chains began from the top of the monoliths, finishing in Sandor’s wrists. Ifan hated that system knowing how much pain inflicted on Sandor to control it. Although his Gheist nature helped him to endure the effort, it was always heartbreaking to see him exhausted to the bones, and still yet, keep on circulating Source in the network.

Sandor smiled at him, as sadly and heavily as Ifan.

"The procedure will not start until a couple of hours. I wanted… I wanted to share them with you.” Ifan said, sitting beside Sandor on the ground. 

Touched and scared, Sandor hugged him strongly, nailing his fingers on Ifan’s pauldrons, breathing in his herbal scent in his neck. The sturdy chains around his wrists clattered against Ifan’s armour.

“I was thinking of bringing something for you to enjoy… maybe a chocolate. But, you know… in these times, we barely have food at all. Much less chocolate. So… Do you want to do something instead? Something... not related... to chocolate or... to this mess?"

Sandor's eyes were wetter, "I want to cry."

Ifan pressed his lips in a thin line and got closer, embracing Sandor. "If that's what you want…" He whispered, a long peck on Sandor’s head.

They remained a long moment in a squeezed hug, knots in their throats, tension in every muscle of their body. From time to time, they allowed themselves to cry a bit, releasing all that pressure from their minds. It was hard to deal with the end of the world, especially when so much responsibility fell on their shoulders, in particular on Sandor’s. If he could not control the Source system at its maximum, if a demon would possess him, if his body could not resist so much power and would end up dying, wasting all the sacrifices done until that moment. He was key; a fragile, emaciated key.

It was a relief to know that the Weaver of Time was aware of the situation, ready to force as much as she could, a success in the time's tapestry, but at the same time, ready to erase Rivellon itself if they failed. It was preferable to wipe out Rivellon from the structure of time and space instead of letting it be the origin of an epidemic of an all-consuming entity that would put at risk the rest of the universes. She would be the last resource, but one that would wipe them all. Knowing that only added more pressure to their already exhausted minds.

“I’m scared.” Sandor said, sniffing, ruefully releasing their hug. 

Ifan heavily sighed, arranging Sandor’s white strands behind his ear, then he thumbed his cheek, “Who’s not?”

“You don’t look scared.”

“I'm simply good at pretending to be calm.” He chuckled as Sandor smiled. "We are going to do all that we can…"

"But what if it doesn't matter?"

"We tried. At least."

Sandor’s frown raised. "And that's it? "

"And that is it. We are not gods, Sandy. We don't have more power than numbers. And mirrors."

Sandor looked at those green calm eyes, those lips curved in a gentle sad smile, those hands that were caressing his own with tenderness. "It’s unbelievable to see how calm you are."

"I've been in war. I know how it feels. To think to lose... " He pressed his forehead against Sandor's. "But I also learnt that we must cherish the little bits of good things we have. Enjoy the happy moments you can take, now, before they are gone."

Sandor sighed deeply and tortuously, hugging him again, pressing his forehead in his shoulder, his fingers tensed on the armour. "I love you. Thank you for all…"

Ifan kissed his ear and whispered. "I love you too, my dear." He patted Sandor’s back. “Well, time to take our positions. At least mine. You are already in yours...”

Sandor grabbed Ifan’s forearm before letting him go, “You did not promise me yet what I asked you,” Sandor dropped as Ifan stood up, Sandor's hand sliding along Ifan's arm until reaching his fingers. Ifan’s face turned grave. 

“I promise you _ that _… if you survive, Sandor.”

Sandor’s sight dropped to the ground, defeated, but then, as if he had just remembered something else, he looked at Ifan’s amulet, hanging on his armour. He wanted to have a guarantee that Ifan would not start again his own destruction if everything ended up being less catastrophic than it seemed to become. He looked at his palms and frowned. Gambling. If leaving Balurik had taught him anything, it was that life was always about gambling.

“Ifan, can you bring me that notebook?” Sandor pointed out a pile of papers in a far away desk, outside the cage. Without questions, Ifan did so. “Wait for me a moment.” Sandor said as he opened the book.

He remained at least five minutes writing in a language that Ifan could identify as Balurikense. Words like _ alma, verdes, preservar _ , and _ memoria _filled the sentences. After some pages of tight beautiful handwriting, Sandor closed the book and moved two fingers to invite Ifan to squat again.

Always blindly trusting in him, Ifan did so. Sandor removed Ifan’s necklace, taking the gem that had saved his life many times before, and held it between his hands. “I hope we can be together after the end of all this, whether in this world… or in the other.”

“We'll wait for each other in the Hall of Echoes.” Ifan whispered.

Gently, Sandor kissed Ifan for the last time and infused a huge amount of Source inside the gem. Ifan had to draw back and break the kiss, scared for the sudden transference. It felt as something stronger than any blast.

Sandor blinked at him, confused. Then he looked down at his arms, somehow surprised by the chains on his wrists. He observed around, frowning. He noticed the book on his lap and opened it, reading it in silence. He finally looked at Ifan and smiled.

“Ah, debes ser sobre quien escribí aquí.” He said, taping the book on his lap. “Bonitos ojos verdes… ciertamente.”

Ifan frowned, recognizing the Balurik language but unable to understand it. Instinctively he touched the amulet from Sandor’s hands and it felt odd. As odd as Sandor was at that moment.

“Commander, we need to take our positions.” DeSelby’s voice came from his back, and he could not ask Sandor anything else. Kissing his head for the last time, Ifan put his necklace around his neck, and left the chamber. 

Sandor read again that notebook, exhaled releasing the pressure in his chest, and burnt it afterwards. He twisted his palms around the chains and grabbed them to make them tighter. A shallow smile curved his lips. He blinked twice and his eyes lost their pupils in the intense greenish white glow of Source.

The plan has just been put in motion.

* * *

The Veil became thinner as hours passed by. Green glowing Source-made threads appeared from the crack-free zones of the sky and gathered around the monoliths spread all over Rivellon, being slowly stored into the network. As the Veil was falling apart in this drain process, the cracks of Void in the sky kept multiplying. The tension in the air increased. Soon, there would be no more Veil to keep the realms separated.

After placing the bloodstones in the middle of the principal cities, the protective shields were activated. Beautiful thick green domes fell over the limits of each region, giving to Guardians a tool that would provide them time and security while moving between cities depending on the whims of the war. Jahan would take control of the situation in Cyseal, Ferol, and Aleroth, while Ataraxia, Mezd city, and Balurik would be checked by Arhu. Zandalor would defend Driftwood, where the heaviest attacks were expected.

In this way, the Guardians were distributed in each of the major cities, the most numerous groups assembled in Driftwood. It was there where Gareth and Ifan had been designated, expecting that their wide experience in war would give them an advantage. The Elves, led by Lysanthir and Saheila, remained in the North. DeSelby with all her Paladin fellows would defend the West.

In the Keep bailey, Tarquin was mentally preparing himself for the enormous stupidity he would make. It comforted him that, at least, he would not be alone in that action. To reach the God King’s dimension, he would fly on Slane’s back, followed by his Dragon Knights who would guarantee him protection until meeting the Child. As an extra reinforcement, Fane would follow him to the very edges of the dimension, keeping it open if needed, making use of his Eternal and wizard powers.

In a chamber far away from the monoliths’, waiting in front of one of the many mirrors gathered in that room, Malady looked at her reflection. _ This is the end. _ At last. She smiled, satisfied, removing her mask. This endless journey would finally stop. Whether they would win or lose was not clear, but at least, this would be the end of all that excess of effort that cost her so much. She summoned a flame of purple Source in one hand and a green one in the other. Cursed and normal Source, living in balance in her body. Her green flame flickered, and out of the blue, it extinguished, making the purple one become more vivid. Balance. Or so she liked to think. 

From the other side of a mirror surface, a dwarf approached and observed her. Dragged into reality because of the intruder, she lowered her hands, arranged the mask on her face once again, and waited for the man to speak. 

“Demons coming. In Balurik.” He said. 

“Give it to me.” She curved her lips in her wickedest smile and stepped forward into the mirror settled in that city. Her principal mission was to contain Demon attacks. Only she was strong enough, or maybe demonic enough, not to fall for these creatures’ tricks.

In a second, Malady was transported to Balurik by just crossing the mirror surface. The usual landscape of Balurik, full of green hills with high mountains in the background, had turned into a yellow withered grass field, bathed with corpses and a thick dark fog covering the usually clean mountains. The attacks of Voidwoken had been merciless in this part of Rivellon. The only thing that remained safe of the attack was the city, covered in the protective green dome. From the dark opaque sky above her, small glowing breaches appeared as the Veil crumbled down. It did not take much time for a swarm of demons to drop from them. Their shiny creepy smiles standing out like little gems of perversion in the dark butchered landscape as the murmur of their maniac laughter raised slowly.

She sighed, moved her head to her sides while several hollow cracks echoed along her body, and took her demonic spear from her back, _ Calamity _. Demons would know who was the mistress in this part of the universe. 

In Ferol, Voidwoken swarmed the zone randomly, lost without Das Vapour's command anymore. There, Lohse enchanted the mass of creatures to buy enough time for Sebille to run into the mirrors and ask for an extra group of Guardians in that part of Rivellon. 

In Ataraxia, the combat turned worse. The Red King was commanding the hordes of undead lizards, claiming that this was his opportunity to have the empire that had always been denied to him. Saheila decimated his army and controlled his ground troops as much as her warriors could, but the undead dragons, always close to Sadha, were hard to deal with without Slane’s group. Without waiting for the situation to turn worse, their messenger rushed through the mirrors, and asked for more Guardians and Dragon Knights to join the battle in that part of the world. 

Driftwood, as it had been expected, was attacked in equal measure by demons, Voidwoken, and undead. The combat was hard to sustain. Outside the protective shield of Zandalor, Ifan and his people kept fighting waves after waves of whatever enemy rushed into them, having strategic retreats to recover their breath inside the dome and keep on fighting. Unlike his previous encounters, Ifan was now overwhelmed by energy. 

He was not struggling to remain in the battlefield. On the contrary. It was easy for him to constantly cast his massive spell of hundreds of Source crossbows and make Source arrow rain fall upon their enemy rows while his fellow Guardians took a respire. Afrit, turned into an over-dimensioned beast—fur of Source flame and red eyes—rushed into the Voidwoken and Lizards alike, consuming their Source and removing them from the combat. 

The more the Veil collapsed into the monolith system, the battle in each point of Rivellon became harder since more enemies kept dropping in from the sky cracks. Among the thousands of minor minions poured from Nemesis and assaulting Balurik, some powerful demons appeared. Somehow, they commanded the mindless ones, and soon, the battlefield became more challenging for Malady. In a brief time, their presence unbalanced the encounter in their favour.

As if the Voidwoken and the undead were informed of the advantage in the South, several groups that were attacking the North and the West retreated through the cracks of the space and headed to Balurik to join efforts in breaking the weakest link in the defensive chain of the Guardians. So it did not take much time for swarms of Voidwoken to appear in front of Malady.

She swore at the commanding demons, towering over the swarm of demonic minions and Voidwokens. Her damned demon ally had not kept his words. She smirked. Much better. Nothing worse for a creature like that than breaking their deals. Demons were evil creatures with no sense of fairness but based their alliances through a fragile system of debts and payments. Breaking a deal was too harmful for the part that had broken it, since retribution was more than justified. Especially if the name of the demon, the real one, was known by the other part.

That fact was such marvellous news for Malady, that instead of feeling overwhelmed by the disadvantage of the situation, she could not stop smirking, confident that now she had exactly what she wanted to make _ him _pay for everything. Tired, she sunk her spear into the ground, several long cracks extended along the soil, and using it as a precarious monolith, she drained all the Source she needed to keep fighting renewed.

In the Keep, Sandor gasped; a sudden pull in the Source network unbalanced him, forcing him to pour his own Source into it. Despite his efforts in doing it slowly, avoiding not to be completely drained, the system had no mercy and demanded more than a half of his Source.

Over the hours, the drag of energy was happening more often. After Malady took Source from the system, the Guardians did the same producing enormous gaps in the Source current. It was clear that the battle was wearing them down and, from that moment on, everyone in the battlefield would rely on the monoliths. Sandor clenched his teeth at that thought.

Despite trying to keep the procedure in ideal conditions, he could not avoid being fully drained on several occasions, skyrocketing his recovery. In a blink of an eye, half of his Source was restored, ready to be poured again into the system. The process was maddening. No matter how much focus he could summon, his efforts in balancing that inner tempest of Source always failed. The blasts did not take time to start, as his recuperation speed increased with each of them.

He blasted over and over, refilling the whole system with one, sometimes two blasts, Source that did not last much anyways, since it was always dragged by someone else all over Rivellon. This was terrifying and exhausting. The burning pain of Source ashes began to raise in his tired body. He grabbed his chains tightly, only focusing on the Source variations of the system, as his body, too exhausted and hurt by the many blasts, started to tremble and falter.

Over the several battlefields on Rivellon, a massive red crack in the sky was open, and with it, a deafening high-pitched sound spread on the lands, immobilising everyone. Some humans and dwarves fell on the ground, victims of convulsive episodes while their ears bled; others, more resilient, covered their ears, enduring the painful sound without averting their gazes on that red crack.

Red liquid leaked from the skies, falling over Rivellon as a thick rain of blood. As if it were a birth labour, surrounded by that piercing sound, an amorphous mass of red energy slowly peered down from the crack. Its size was colossal, since it could be seen from everywhere on Rivellon.

For a moment, Malady was paralysed at the sight of that phenomenon. But with a blink of an eye, she shook the shock off and cast a massive Source wall to delay demons and Voidwoken on reaching the principal city. Without wasting more time in contemplating the red show in the skies, she rushed to the Balurik mirror. On its surface, she met Tarquin’s figure, ceremoniously wrapping a necklace around his neck while, mind-absent, kept looking at his own reflection in the mirror. As soon as the reflective surface showed him Malady’s image, Tarquin was dragged out from his trance, displaying a bare gesture full of fear and hesitation.

“It’s it. The Child!” Malady said.

Tarquin blinked several times, unable to have another reaction for a couple of seconds. Then, he swallowed and rubbed his hands nervously, as a way to encourage himself, “I shall go.”

That was all that he could mutter before running to the bailey where Slane and Fane were waiting for him. They left the Keep on Slane's back and flew over the mountain ranges of the Dragon’s Spine towards Driftwood. The closer they were, the more strenuous and deafening it was the sound filling the raining red skies.

Meanwhile, close to Driftwood, the ground was split along Stonegarden (*). Despite expecting rivers of lava to emerge, a dark cold purple mist emanated from it. This crack on earth was not exposing the core itself of Rivellon, as everyone would have guessed. It had a deadly eerie aura, as if the doors of another Realm were opened.

The suspense did not last longer, since from the ground fracture, an enormous skeleton with four wings of bones in a Void-made robe walked up ominously. An echoing deep laughter reverberated all over Rivellon. Without the Veil, the God King had finally reached this world.

Driftwood immediately sent messengers through the mirrors, carrying the order of gathering forces in Stonegarden. Under the protective dome, Ifan and his people waited for reinforcements, planning what kind of offensive formations to take. Saheila joined them too, commanding everyone—elves and non elves alike—to trust her with the highest level of madness she would induce them. It was a desperate measure, but it was the only trick they had. She only hoped that watching the small fragments of the future in each second could be enough to take down Death itself.

When the last soldier joined the rows and Gareth briefly explained the plan, they left the protective dome and headed to the God King. The first group did its best to fight the dark entity, but it was futile. The God King cast Death everywhere and took down each row thrown against him. To see bits of the future was useless against him. There were not many options in front of the Death itself, the ultimate destiny of every living creature.

Avoiding to massacre her people in vain, Saheila stopped the maddening command and ordered a retreat. They still had to contain the danger of demons, Voidwoken, and Undead that, despite the God King’s presence, never stopped attacking them. The God King had to be faced by using other means.

A second group commanded by Ifan cast their strongest spells against the God King, but it was also useless. It did not matter what they threw at him; bolts, magic, arrows, cannon balls. He consumed everything, corrupting it with Void and making it decay in an instant; nothing was stopping him. Desperate, knowing that now they had another front to fight, they dragged more Source from the network, oblivious to Sandor’s condition.

* * *

In the Keep, Sandor’s robe started to be soaked in blood. The Source ashes had put his fragile body under such stress that the usual lacerate sensation turned into actual cuts on his muscles and skin. He also could not stop coughing liquid Source, long silver threads dripped from the corner of his mouth as a symptom that his Source core was exhausted. Everyone was taking too much Source from the network without mercy. Now it was when the constant flux was required, so he could maintain the system unchangeable. But he could not fill it any longer. Damn.

His breath was heavy, his eyes unfocused, his hands bloody. He was so tired of everything. He could not resist another blast anymore.

So he cried, hopeless. He would not endure it.

But... he had to. As he had endured so many things in his life to see their end.

He knew the Source in the system was vital to win, even though such a chance existed barely. He was key. Depleted, hurt, exhausted, Sandor tightened his grip around the chains once again and crying, he kept focusing on his duty. He needed to stay alive until the last second of this desperate plan.

Then, from the back of his dark mind, he heard a shriek.

* * *

Malady appeared in Driftwood. Her temple was bleeding and by the way she walked, she was also wounded in more parts of her body. She ran at the Stonegarden and joined the troops in mid retreat, being briefly informed about the situation. Then she looked at the God King, the creature rising from the ground and extending its four skeleton wings. The purple miasma around him was suffocating despite the distance. For a second, she faltered, too exhausted. _ Where was Tarquin? _

In that moment, from the Eastern, a bright river of red remnants of energy illuminated the sky. It looked like an intense red aurora borealis, moving in the fragmented sky as a serpent Dragon. Anything close to it was degraded immediately and its Source dragged into the red amorphous figure. That creature was consuming everything at its wake: clouds, birds, Void cracks, and Dragon Knights who attempted to attack, turning everyone and everything into thin ashes floating in the air. Far at the East, a small point in the sky kept quickly approaching Driftwood, doing acrobatic manoeuvres to avoid the sudden lashes of red energy coming from that amorphous serpent. It was Slane. Over his back, the only key to stop that over-dimensioned creature: a shady man of dubious morals.

That little point in the sky had been flying around the red creature, pestering it like a summer fly. Once the amorphic red figure picked up Tarquin’s scent, its lashes—random until then—became focused on Slane. They had caught the Child’s attention.

With a violent roar to impulse himself, Slane flew faster, targeting the God King on the ground. At the sight of that manoeuvre, Ifan shouted a quicker retreat. The dragon was planning to crash into the God King and it was impossible to forecast how the ancient eternal was going to react. Desperate, those by land ran away, while Malady alongside Zandalor cast a secondary shield to protect them from the impact. 

Slane kept nosediving towards the God King, while Tarquin screamed in panic. Fane laughed maniacally, tasting beforehand the surprise that such collision would mean for the damned King.

Following them, speeding up as much as the dragon, the Child kept humming at an even higher volume. In the last fraction of a second, when the impact was imminent, Slane touched the ground with just a nail of his paws, and changed his angle to head to the Blackpits, planning over the ground level. The God King, who had been awaiting the impact with his scythe at the ready, looked at the Dragon in confusion, unaware that The Child behind him, with less control because of its massive long amorphous body, could not mimic Slane’s evasive movement. The Child ended up crushed into the God King.

The collision exploded into a vast amount of Source and Void. It was so violent that shattered the ground and its fragments disintegrated into dust and energy, whirling one around the other while the spacetime, at that point, cracked open once more.

A massive hole in the space's fabric appeared around the God King and the Child, exposing the Void itself. It dragged Source from any living creature: soldiers, animals, trees, grass. Thin threads of Source pulled out from every living creature’s body and disappeared in the hole's darkness. Ifan saw in terror how a particular thread, getting thicker over time, came from the ground itself. The Source networks. The Void hole was eating up the Source constant flux controlled by Sandor.

In the Keep, Sandor screamed, soaked in sweat and blood and Source liquid, blasting over and over. That hole in the network demanded filling, and doing it was devastating. The agony of his shredded body increased mercilessly. He cried, because unaware of how the events were unfolding, he knew something serious had caused such an extreme violent leak of Source.

The unbalance was dire. _ Cataclysmically _dire.

Despite the pain and the lacerations of his body, he kept blasting, worried that any gap of Source in the network could mean the end of Rivellon. He forgot what he was doing, why he was there. His human consciousness was lost in the Source blasts and his Gheist nature took over his mind. He shrieked, and kept shrieking, as pain and Source burnt his hurt body, summoning such a vast amount of Source that he knew he could have never controlled if he were not a Ghesit.

When he landed, Slane turned to look at the God King. He used his wings to shield the shock waves caused by the impact of the Child against the God King. As soon as the explosions ceased, he flew back all the distance to the Stonegrave and stopped before a gigantic ball of red and purple miasma fighting for dominance.

It was not clear if the Child had recognised The God King’s Nadaer essence, or if the God King himself knew anything about that amorphous figure glowing in red. But what was obvious was that both of them fought; the Child sucking any bit of energy from the God King, while the latter pushed the creature away, unable to cut the thousands of Source threads pulling out from his skeleton. 

Without wasting time, Fane nailed his bony hand into the ground and drained as much energy as he needed from the Source system, maintaining the crack in the spacetime open. The other hand was extended in the air, pouring all the gathered Source into the hole. He was almost sure it headed to the Void, to the God King’s plane. 

The enormous amount of Source needed to keep it open was more and more demanding over the seconds. At some point, his body burnt into Source flames, exceeded in his own capacity to contain it. He knew it. This was the reason none of his companions could take this role. To endure that vast Source running through one’s body was inhuman. No living creature would survive it, it had to be an Undead. With his Source-eyes flashing, Fane moved his head towards the crack, giving an order to Tarquin. 

After a hard swallow, trembling hands, Tarquin cut his palm with a dagger and splashed his blood at those entities fighting. The Child reacted immediately, putting aside his interest in the God King. His long ethereal red body moved in Tarquin’s direction and due to its entanglement with the God King, he dragged him with him. Without second thoughts, Tarquin ran to the crack and jumped into the Void, screaming. The amorphous creature followed him. 

When the intentions of the Child were clear enough, the God King resisted the drag, nailing his scythe in the ground, but the force in the movement was too much for him. Not wanting to delay the process any longer, Fane froze the scythe and threw a sizeable chunk of rock, breaking the weapon. With no other point to secure his position, the God King was quickly dragged, shouting out at Fane the word of betrayer once more. 

“Fast, order Sandor to close the Veil!” Malady yelled in the distance, at the front of the troops that had been retreating. 

Ifan rushed to Driftwood and crossed the local mirror, heading to the Keep. As soon as he put a foot on the other side, he heard a constant heartbreaking shriek. His blood became ice as the memory of those Gheist crucified came back to his mind. His heart sped up, a knot appeared in his throat, and breathing became difficult.

He ran through the many rooms, walking downstairs to reach the monolith chamber. The speed was desperate; he tumbled twice, exhausted and nervous, while the horrible déjà vu of his race to save the elves resonated in his mind. The shriek was stronger the closer he was getting. When he finally entered the place, he saw, horrified, the owner of those shrieks.

Wide unfocused eyes, bleeding fists tightly holding the chains, Source flames swirling around his body, Sandor was shrieking, sustaining an amount of Source that his figure, lacerated and soaked in blood and Source liquid, could not resist anymore.

“Sandor, close the Veil, This is over!” Ifan screamed, as tears fell along his cheeks. Sandor was not going to survive this. He knew it.

Despite being lost in his tortuous state, Sandor understood the order, and pulling the chains even more tightly, he blasted several times, profusely vomiting liquid Source. The Source needed to close the Veil was not now sufficient due to the recent extreme leak caused by the fight of those powerful entities. To close the Veil, he had to use not only his blasts – hard to sustain by now with his wrecked body – but he also had to force a massive purge all over Rivellon to fill the hole. His Gheist mind did not care about it. And even if he could, it was not as if he had another option. So he proceeded mercilessly.

From every creature’s chest on Rivellon, a long thread of Source came out, establishing a connection with the crack. Over the horizon, a fine greenish glowing weave appeared, forming a patch on the crack that, slowly, extended over the skies. Second after second, that enormous extension of protective Source kept thickening, while everyone in Rivellon fell on their knees as a vast amount of Source from their own bodies was violently dragged by the closest monolith around them. The process was not smooth, but rushing and violent: Sandor had to fulfil an order, but he was at the edge of death. He had to complete the seal before giving up, before finding his deserved rest.

When the Veil was finally restored, the sky became blue again, and the sun shone upon their heads, offering a sense of victory and relief. They had won. In the Keep, the shriek stopped, and with it, Sandor fell on the puddle of blood and liquid Source at his feet. 

Deafened by the sudden silence surrounding him, illuminated by the first sunbeams that filtered through the small top windows of the monolith’s Chamber, exhausted by the battle and that violent draining, Ifan stepped forwards. He wanted to check on Sandor, embracing the naïve hope that, maybe, he was still breathing. But as soon as he moved his feet, his legs slackened and he fell on his knees, unable to do anything but keep watching that collapsed emaciated body of his husband. He just could whisper Sandor’s name, as his vision turned blurrier. Then, he also collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

* * *

* * *

  
  


**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

**Elven prophecy** [Divinity: Original Sin II]: See ‘ [ _ Saheila and the Mother Tree _ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477) _ ’ _ ( [ notes in the chapter 1 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746568/chapters/49293671)). This concept was inspired by what we see in Saheila’s behaviour by the end of the game, when she is in Arx. She speaks about a prophecy that will make the Elves great conquerors. I liked to think that this is just an echo of the great brainwash that the Mother Tree did on elven minds, especially those closer to her, like Saheila. 

**Stonegarden ** [ [ Divinity Original Sin II ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Stonegarden) ]: Graveyard in the Reaper’s Coast, where [ Ryker ](https://divinityoriginalsin2.wiki.fextralife.com/Ryker)lives.


	32. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any sentence hard to understand or confusing, please, point it out to me so I can correct it. Help me to offer a better written story.  
Any comment will be appreciated.  
Thank you.

A week after the final battle, Rivellon looked like it had always been: a vast extension of green lands illuminated by shiny days, with vivid deserts and mountains decorating the nocturnal landscapes. The only difference with the past calm days was the vast amount of corpses spread everywhere and the red rivers around the main battlefields. It was going to take some years for the world to heal and rebuild.

During the next months, the remaining demons and Voidwoken trapped on this side of the Veil were eliminated by the Guardians, and the Undead Lizards were completely purged by the Paladins, putting an end to the Red King's ambitions. The only Undead allowed to live peacefully yet secretly, were those who had always had the protection of the undead city in the Dragon's Spine, where Fane and Gratiana helped their fellows to find purpose in this world of living creatures. 

To see in which conditions the far West had been left, the Paladins and the less exhausted Guardians performed expeditions to the Forbidden City (*). They found in the ruins of what had been mighty palaces of the former Lizard Empire a Lizard resistance group that had been hiding underground from the first day that the Houses started to fight one another. The news brought great suspicion among the other races, unable to trust in those who had allowed the presence of the God King walk through Rivellon freely. But truth be told, Lizard population was now quite low. The Undead thirst of the Red King had transformed most of them into his subordinates, decimating the Lizards in the process. 

It was not going to be easy for the rest of the races to trust in the remaining Lizards again. It was going to require enormous efforts to add them to the new political scene in Rivellon. And the Lizards themselves had to unlearn their dangerous manners that allowed the rise of such a terrible king. The only way for them to live in this new Rivellon was to abandon their old rancid values and became more compromised with diplomacy and freedom than with imperialism. Something that nobody knew them capable of.

About the Child and the God King, nobody could say for sure that Rivellon had been completely saved. It was clear that the presence of the Veil was a great barrier for both, so further problems coming from them were not going to be expected in the near future. Yet, the presence of the Black Ring was not eliminated for good, so a watchful eye was needed to keep them at bay. A role that the Guardians would not mind to fulfil.

The cities all over the world were rebuilt, and a calm prosperity seemed to reach them again, not without their own political problems and inner issues, but they were nothing in comparison with what they had just fought. 

Now, it was a time for reconstruction. 

However, what was hard to rebuild was Sandor's state. 

Ifan had been the whole month by Sandor’s side, who completely purged, had been stuck in a bed. 

The leak in the Source system, all that Source devoured by the Void, was compensated with wild blasts and a massive purge all over Rivellon. The massive drain had killed many, especially the most exhausted soldiers. It had been a sacrifice that no one but Lysanthir and Tarquin knew it was going to happen. Although it was hard to believe that Sandor could not have reached that conclusion at some point. The lack of choices and alternatives had been the only reason why he had steeled his soul and proceeded anyways. Sandor had made a great sacrifice but he also forced a sacrifice on many.

Ifan held Sandor's hand in his own, thumbing those slender inert fingers. Malady walked into the room and lent against the wall by the other side of the bed. She observed both humans. Despite the time, their faces still showed the exhaustion of their bodies. 

“I think you should put an end to his life. He is not even a silent monk now.” She said. Her words made Ifan dart a bitter look at her. She raised her palm, “I'm just saying the obvious. Do you prefer him to live all his human life in this state?”

Malady had licked Sandor’s skin many times to see beyond that flesh, but nothing came out of her mind. Not his past, not his suffering, not the fight. Nothing. It was as if that body were an empty vessel. There was no point in keeping him alive like a vegetable.

Without words, Ifan just sighed loudly. 

The door of the room opened again; it was Fane, Sebille, and Lohse. Fane had a low intensity of Source in his eyes, and Lohse needed a bit of support to walk, that Sebille did not mind offering with her arms. Once she helped her to sit beside Ifan's, Sebille patted the man's back as a gesture of comfort. Ifan nodded at her with a tiny sad smile on his lips.

They talked for a while about the general situation of Rivellon, how slowly it was rebuilding itself, and then, the silence fell for a long moment. 

“You can't stay all day here, Ifan.” Sebille said. The man had been there during the last month, as soon as his body healed enough to stay by Sandor's bed. He even had put aside his Guardian's duty. 

Ifan shook his head. “I... I don't want to lose him again. He is not dead.”

“He is not alive either.” Malady said. 

Fane did a clicking sound with his jaw, and observed the absent body. He had just come back from Dragon's Spine to see what he could do for his friend. Or if it was needed, to give him the last goodbye. 

Fane removed the blankets to expose Sandor's bare chest. Some healers had been treating his wounds and lacerations with the few Source that the battle allowed them to keep. The work had been good enough to leave just soft lines where the cuts appeared. Then, he observed Sandor's necklaces, carefully placed in the middle of his soft pectorals. The usual chain with his wedding ring was now accompanied by another one: a black triangle. 

Knowing what kind of question was flitting around Fane’s mind, Ifan spoke. “No. We don’t know anything about that triangle. He never wore it before… I think it must be something… useful, somehow.” Ifan removed his own amulet and gave it to Fane. 

Surprise, Fane hummed; it was one of the rarest gems, a Dragon’s Tear. 

“What I know is this… He infused it with his power before the battle. This thing kept me alive in many opportunities. Can't you use it? Do some wizard-thing on Sandor? Give him his Source?”

Fane took the gem and observed it in his bony hand. His Source-eyes became slit, deeply inspecting the fabulous amulet. That gem was not filled with standard Source but something else. A special kind of Source. Too much Source. He pressed it against Sandor's chest, but nothing happened. No reaction at all. However, the movement made his bony little finger touch accidentally that dark triangle, and a violent sparkle of Source cracked in the air. 

Startled, everyone drew back and blinked at Fane. 

“What's this?” Fane said, looking at the triangle, now all his attention focused on it. 

Wary, Ifan touched the triangle but nothing happened. Same did Sebille and Lohse, but the medallion was unresponsive. 

Malady hummed interested. “It reacts to wizards? Why is that?”

Rolling his Source eyes, and forcing a useless sigh just to express, as usual, his utmost annoyance, Fane touched the medallion with resolve, feeling how it drained his energy violently. Immediately opening his hand to let the triangle fall again on Sandor’s chest. 

“I do not believe it reacts with wizard nature, but Source. You are all still too exhausted. I’m superior, remember? Eternal.” Fane said.

He took again the black triangle, getting accustomed to the Source drain that the little artefact was producing. It was filling itself, as if it were charging. Then, the triangle shone, so intense and bright that everyone had to look aside, eyes closed, dazzled. 

A cracking sound of spacetime burst into the room, and a hollow blow was heard close to the bed. Tense before a new danger, forcing their eyes to see what had just happened, they stood and got their weapons at the ready, still forcing their dazzled eyes to see the strange black figure that their contracted pupils could see at their front. Then, they listened to a very familiar voice. 

“You bloody Sandor! I told you to keep the cursed medallion charged with Source! Constantly! It was about time. Bloody hell and the damned fire blues, I've almost died... in many, many times. And that bescumbered red creature kept following me... and you Source-freak-man couldn't fricking use a bit of Source when it matters!? Blasting bloody man. The protection against the Void was meant to last a couple of hours! The predicament you put me in!” Tarquin's voice, accelerated by his nervousness, flew unstoppable with swearing words that felt quite unfit from the necromancer. He was still on the ground, his dark outfit soaked in sweat and blood. Some reddish dust stained his robe. “If the creatures were not going to kill me at any moment, the Void would have– I.... I...” 

Due to the rigid silence and the many pairs of eyes looking at him in surprise, Tarquin calmed himself down and looked around. “Where is Sandor?” He said, finally. 

He sighed, as Ifan helped him to stand up. Tarquin clapped his robe, slippery drops of ichor and red dust dripped to the ground. There was nothing to do with his clothes, they were ruined forever. He turned around and frowned at the sight of the wizard on the bed; the blankets were below his waist, exposing his mistreated chest and his two necklaces. Tarquin hummed in surprise, Sandor looked more emaciated than when he had been a Silent Monk. It was as if those months of recovery had meant nothing. Or maybe... he had been... 

“For the Fallen... is he... purged? Again?” Tarquin asked, surprised. 

“Completely, the restoration of the Veil dragged his whole Source. Including his soul. He drained all Rivellon too, to fill the gap. The Veil is sealed, but... there is not a bit of his own Source in this body.” Malady said. She could infuse some of her own in him, if only some bits of Sandor's could be still present in his flesh in order to rebuild his personality from it. Repairing the Veil had been done at a great cost for the controller of the Source flux.

“Well. No wonder he was not charging the triangle with Source, then.” Tarquin coughed, more red dust came out from his mouth. He made a disgusted face at his dusty hand.

“Are you okay?” Lohse asked. 

Squinted eyes and acid smile on his lips, Tarquin observed her, “I've been the bait of an enormous amorphous monster, travelled to its own plane, followed by a King of Death, let the Void drain my own Source to the point to almost end up like this Sandor here, while running away from a red snake-bescumber creature which wanted to phagocyte my flesh. Yes, I've never been bloody better.”

Lohse twitched her lips. There was no need for gratuitous sarcasm. 

“Stop complaining. You are alive. That’s enough. Can't you do something with him?” Ifan said. 

“Already giving work to the exhausted one? Ah. Handsome ones are always heartless.” Tarquin said. 

Ifan crossed his arms and scoffed, his hard eyes darting at Tarquin. It was the typical pose of his old Lone Wolf demeanor, threatening him in silence. 

Annoyed, Tarquin sighed loud enough for Ifan to hear it, and frowned at the body resting on the bed. He raised Sandor's eyelids, observed his white eyes, pressed his fingers on his throat, and his face turned more serious. The man was losing his vital signs. 

“How long had he been in this state?” Tarquin said. 

“A month, more or less.” Ifan answered. 

Tarquin's eyebrows shoot up. “That's quite a feat. Nothing lives in this body. This is just meat. I hardly imagine what's doing the trick. He should have stopped breathing for a long while... unless... um...” He took the necklace of the black triangle and rubbed it with his fingers. There was no more Source in it. He nodded, understanding what had happened. “It was the energy of this which has been sustaining him so far. That's why I couldn't be teleported here.” He placed two fingers on Sandor’s neck, and shook his head. “I am afraid he is not going to survive much longer. His pulse is lowering.”

The news contracted Ifan's face in a grieving gesture. He took Sandor's hand, squeezing it, while checking his pulse on his wrist. Tarquin was right. Ifan's eyes became wet. 

“Can you do something? I don’t care if it's temporary, just to give us time and see how to save him? I have this...” He took the Dragon’s Tear from Fane's hands and gave it to Tarquin. “This is full of Source. He charged it before the battle. You... you must do something.” 

“I cannot stress enough that I'm not a healer.” Tarquin sighed, his deadpan face frowned when he carefully looked at the gem. He took it from Ifan's hands and cast a purple spell on it which made him blink. 

Tarquin hummed, “Could it be? Let me check, this is such an amateur work that it's hard to believe this could be possible...” His hands glowed in purple and pink, magical mist emanating from them and making strange figures in the air. Everyone could see the form of Sandor's face made of glowing smoke. “I can hardly decide whether to be angry or amused.”

“Wait, what are you doing?” Malady asked.

Tarquin chuckled. He put the gem on his palm and rubbed its surface with his fingers. A thin thread of glowing green Source – the thread of life itself – came out from the gem, elastic. “Infusing a dead body with a soul trapped in a stone. Necromancy basics.”

Ifan frowned at Tarquin, “You are not going to make him a ghoul.”

Exhausted, Tarquin laughed and then coughed more red dust. “There is no Source in this gem to use as a recharge. But there is something else...” He connected the thread sustained between his fingers to Sandor's chest, and the gem glowed intensely in green. The connection forced a violent influx of energy from the gem to that body, and then, out of the blue, the gem surface broke and turned gray, becoming dust that slipped out between Tarquin's fingers.

“Oops.” Tarquin clapped his hands to clean the dust. “As I said, such amateur work. It shames me.”

Furious, Ifan stood up and caught Tarquin by the lapel of his dirty robe, “What have you done?!”

“Easy, easy, it would be a waste to have survived a creature of nothingness just to be killed by an old friend to whom I’ve healed at the best of my abilities so many, many times.”

“Ifan... wait. Look.” Sebille whispered. 

Everyone turned to look at Sandor's body. His grey skin became a vivid fawn, recovering his golden undertones in several seconds. His chest moved up and down more energetically and a soft groan stuck in his throat followed by the opening of his tired eyes. He observed the ceiling for a moment with a soft frown, and then turned his face around. 

Ifan's grip on Tarquin's lapel lost its intensity at the surprise. 

Tarquin started to laugh. “Sandor, Sandor, Sandor. My friendly fellow. You are the most insane scholar I’ve ever met. How many times have you practised that spell? I only remember telling you about its basics without much detail.”

“Spell?...” He saw Tarquin’s hands, holding the cord that used to have the Dragon’s Tear, but only a layer of dust was on the palm. Immediately he inferred that the gem had broken, unable to resist so much power handled in such an amateur way, “Oh, _ that _spell. Never?” Sandor's voice came out fragile, but he was smiling. 

Tarquin shook his head, “And you trusted nothing bad was going to happen to your soul in a first naïve attempt? I see you have a thing in playing nonsense with your own soul. How did you suppose we were going to figure it out that you wanted to possess a body?” 

Everyone frowned at the strange conversation that both were having. 

“I trusted in Ifan's guts… and stubbornness.” He sighed with difficulty as Ifan took place by his side.

“You are insane, indeed.” Tarquin said.

Sandor laughed faintly. “Well, it seems it worked better than I thought. It's my own body, no less. Right?” He raised his own hand and looked at his palm, then looked at everyone around his bed, focusing on Ifan. He smiled, tired. Ifan did not hesitate to hold that hand and place it on the mattress. Sandor sighed once more and fell asleep. 

Everyone blinked in silence for a while, happily shocked.

“Care to explain what the hell happened?” Ifan asked Tarquin, never releasing Sandor's hand. 

“He did the craziest, stupidest thing you can imagine. Like many things he had been doing in the past. He performed a dangerous spell that I only briefly explained to him once, trapping his whole soul in that pure Dragon’s Tear in the most amateur way you can do it, expecting to find a body to infuse it with it by mere luck. He could have left me instructions! Bloody hell.” Tarquin shook his head, it was unbelievable the lack of responsibility with his own soul. Then, curious, he frowned at Ifan, “You.. You were wearing that gem during the whole battle. When did he put his soul there?”

Ifan remembered that moment before leaving Sandor alone in the monolith chamber. Now it made sense all that strange behaviour of him. 

“Before starting the operation… he filled that gem. I thought it was just Source.”

“Yes. It makes sense. In that moment he put his soul there, and nothing of his memory was present during the fight. I daresay he had been controlling the Source system almost like a... a Ghesit. No memories, no emotions, just... efficiency. That explains many things.” Tarquin hummed. In fact, that probably had been the best choice that the wizard could have made not only to survive but to let Rivellon survive as well. His own fears and weaknesses would have worked against him. “Anyway, as I said, he is a crazy irresponsible man with his own soul.”

“But he survived.” Ifan smiled looking at Sandor in his sleep."That's all what counts. He _ survived _."

“In that case, he probably doesn't know anything about the fight.” Malady said, smirking. “I guess it's for the better. Not the most pleasant memories to have.”

“Never met a sneakier bold wizard like him. No matter the means, he gets what he wants. I always liked that spirit.” Tarquin said.

Malady touched Sandor's forehead and then his chest. “Not a wizard anymore.” Her words made Ifan frown in silent question, “His Source core is broken. He can’t contain Source anymore. And probably for the best. Otherwise, his blast cycle would start over again.”

“So... he lost his magic?” Ifan asked.

“Probably. We’ll see when he recovers.” Malady sighed, and smiled, “But well, be happy. He is alive.”

Ifan nodded, the brightest smile on his face. 

* * *

The room was small, but it had big windows that let the sunbeams pass through and warm them early in the morning. That day, as usual, Ifan had awoken first and remained inside their bed, caressing the still sleeping man by his side. It was impossible to hide the silly smile that kept curving his lips at that sight. Sandor’s breathing was calm and restful; his hair—now softer and brown—was spread on the pillow. His cheekbones were still a bit prominent; he needed more months of proper meals to recover his weight, but he was not emaciated anymore.

Ifan’s fingers running along Sandor’s hair awoke him. He opened his sleepy eyes and smiled at those green ones that were observing him.

“Good morning.” Ifan said.

Sandor exhaled and cuddled against him, hiding his face in Ifan’s neck. He still had the habit of averting his eyes. They had recovered a slight shade of colour, a soft brown mixed with the disturbing white of his former Gheist eyes that still gave them an unnatural yellowish look, but at least his pupils now worked like human ones.

“Did you sleep well?” Ifan asked. 

Sandor hummed.

They remained silent for a moment while the morning Sun tinged their small room with golden tones. As part of their morning habits, Sandor asked Ifan to narrate some of his lost memories, as the only way they found to fill the gaps in his past. That day, Ifan told him about their last fight to save Rivellon and the use of the Source network to seal the Veil. Ifan did not hide nor watered down the details of the facts; it was Sandor’s past and his actions. It was also a gesture of pure trust to give him all the truth and help him to acknowledge it. 

“That’s how we won…” Ifan said, arranging Sandor’s thick fringe behind his ear. He missed his grey lock, now so plain brown.

“It feels like the narration of an epic novel you read…” Sandor sighed, “I can’t remember anything. Only the previous day. Then… just awakening in the infirmary.”

“I believe it’s for the best… you have… suffered too much to control the network.” Ifan gave him a peck on the tip of his nose and moved a bit inside the bed. Sandor was caressing Ifan’s bare chest. 

“I’ve lost so many memories…” He trailed off, his caresses stroking down along Ifan’s arm to finally reach his hand. He took it and brought it to his lips, leaving a kiss on those scarred knuckles. Then he observed the wedding ring in it. A matching ring was now on his finger too. No point in wearing it as a necklace now that he had lost all his magic. 

“Do you regret it?” Ifan asked, his voice displaying uncertainty.

“Hmn?”

“Surviving.” He whispered as if he were afraid of that word.

Sandor breathed in slowly and took a long time to answer. “No, you didn’t promise me you would not destroy yourself so... I guess I have to get stuck with you.”

Ifan smiled. “Yes, you have. But… seriously…”

Sandor’s look fell down; he cuddled against Ifan. “It’s difficult to live without magic. It was the only thing I was good at. I feel something missing inside me. The gap in the memories only makes it worse.”

Ifan slid his hand up on Sandor’s back and pressed his nape gently. Sandor purred.

Ifan could not decide if he was happy or sad about it. To know that Sandor was safe, unable to unleash terrible powers anymore and risk his life in blast, had been wonderful news for him. But seeing him so gloomy had put a limit to that joy. He could understand that emptiness. Every Sourcerer can feel the Source core in their bodies, the Source running along their flesh, the refreshing feeling of being intensely alive with it. He had recovered that feeling when Sandor began to pour Source in his body. Now, Sandor had lost it, including his non-Source magic. And knowing him for so long, Ifan was more than sure that Sandor's lack of powers would have repercussions in his insecurities sooner than later; especially in their bed.

“Do you think you can drag some Source out of me? For you to use?”

Sandor raised his eyebrows then he frowned. Despite being tempting, using Source Vampirism on Ifan was horrifying because of the consequences that it could bring. “I wish... but I don’t want to risk it.” He looked down, “My core is almost broken. If it’s not already. I can’t hold more Source than what my flesh can. I fear that forcing Source in me… would destroy my core, and would kill me. Or something worse… like turning me a silent monk again.” Longing, Sandor touched Ifan’s chest and closed his eyes, “But I feel it. I can feel my Source in you. That has to be enough.”

“I don’t want to put you at risk, Sandy, but… but also I don’t want to see you so sad...”

Sandor left a peck on Ifan’s neck. “If the pain were only due to the Source…”

Sandor had lost more than his Source and magic in that memory gap. After recovery, his personality became more silent and darker, letting the feeling of uselessness grow in his chest. He had stopped healing others and researching, claiming there was no way he could do it without magic, and most of the time he remained indoor, reading.

The pain in his soul was not only related to his lack of magic. He felt a particular and overwhelming weight on his shoulders: the many people he had drained to death to close the Veil. It was true that he was no stranger to killing people. He had done it since he was five years old, with or without intention. But this time had been on such an immense scale, and happening in the gap of emptiness of his mind only made it worse. So many Guardians had died because of him... That only made everything gloomier.

He had to find comfort in the fact that, at least, he was surviving those new uncertain times by Ifan’s side, who made this cruel world a more bearable place to stay.

“I know Sandy… I’m no stranger to the weight of killing. You know it. But at least think you did it to stop this mess. Nobody is blaming you. Not even those who lost their life.”

“Such a convenient idea to wash one’s consciousness.”

“Sandy… don’t be cruel.”

“It’s hard not to overthink. If you put things in a non-personal perspective… I ended up doing exactly the same as Lucian…. the same that you would have hated anyone for even trying to do.”

“Sandy, that’s not true.” He left a peck on Sandor’s forehead. “I don’t hate you… Truth be told, back then when facing Lucian…. I knew the solution, the best one, was to seal the Veil. But not leaving Lucian in charge. That much I knew. I could have endured losing my Source, becoming a silent monk even. I could have accepted it as a way to pay for my… mistakes. I would have found peace in that. But not if it meant leaving Lucian in control. How long would it have taken for him to drop another Deathfog bomb justified in the same way? He always found good excuses to maintain his power.”

They remained silent for a moment. There was still too much to rebuild, to repair, to heal.

Sandor sneaked under Ifan’s arms, pressing his own between their chests.

“A wise man told me once that I had not to be so hard on me, even when I had more responsibility for the blood in my hands. Maybe I should make him remember that.”

They looked at each other intensely, a soft smile curving their lips. Sandor touched Ifan’s jaw with his fingertips and kissed him.

“Noted.”

Ifan pulled him, his palms on Sandor’s back.

“Sandy. I was thinking… Since you lost the memory of our marriage... Wanna do it again?”

Sandor blinked with a slight frown. “Can we do that?”

Ifan took Sandor’s left hand and kissed his ring. “Human fashion only. The elven marks are already there, can’t be remade again... but well... at least you will have a memory of the rings. Is that a good motive to get better, Sandy?”

Sandor smiled. It was. It was.

* * *

With the closure of the Veil, the countdown to the end of the world stopped. The Voidwoken ceased being a danger, but the threats of Nemesis, and the never-desisting forces of the Black Ring remained the same. Although the latter received many blows during that war, and now it was at its weakest, it would be a matter of time for them to become what they were once. But for now, like the demons, it was an enemy to put aside in the list of menaces.

The Children of the Faith, the alternative name adopted by chaotic groups of Rivellonians who could not adapt to the new reality after the death of the gods, became less active in the following months. Maybe Arhu's participation in the prevention of the end of the world calmed their thirst for vengeance. Or maybe the chaos and damage sustained for so long in this war wore them out as much as it had done with the Guardians. The result was that they turned into another menace to dismiss, at least, for a while.

The Source network was destroyed. The Guardians wanted to be completely sure that no spies or future Black Ring members could exploit it to weaken the Veil once more. By reducing the monoliths to dust, they eliminated any means to start over the end of the world. They also burnt all the information related to them; no book or research about the network survived the wipe. In front of DeSelby’s inner affairs group, Infirma, Tarquin, and Sandor had to swear to take their knowledge of the monoliths to their graves. The faster History could forget the existence of that cursed network, the better; it was the only way to keep the Veil safe in the long term.

The principal problem that Rivellon had to focus on with urgency was the political and social disaster in which the Lizards were left. Many over Rivellon asked for massive executions of Lizards, showing no intention in separate those who opposed the assassination of the houses’ leaders with those who simply gave their full support to the Undead Red King. For the rest of the races, Lizards were responsible for giving power to the God King’s undead armies. It was a consensus: they were a danger as long as they keep their egocentric manners and their imperialist viewpoints. History had shown that Lizards had been given a second chance in coexisting with the other races, and they have failed once more when they embraced the Red and the God King. Now, Rivellon sought their punishment. 

Because of the oath of the War Hero Slane, who joined the independent Lizard groups and promised to rebuild a modern Lizard society with better values, Rivellonians accepted to give them another chance not without deep wariness. Several institutions of each race would watch the Lizards to see if they succeeded in unlearning their imperialist obsessions. The majority considered it a waste of time; it was well known that Lizards were too proud to change and lower their heads.

The tensions between the new restored houses and the rest of Rivellon never disappeared altogether. For many, it was just a matter of time for the most prideful lizards to rebel under the indignities that this treatment meant for them. The Guardians knew that reincorporating the Lizards to Rivellon once again was a ticking bomb. For this reason, controlling and watching them became their major goal.

Arx was never rebuilt. All the memories of fallen Gods and devastating Voidwoken attacks were preserved in it as a historic monument for future generations. Instead, the precarious town blooming around the Guardian’s Keep started to flourish and grow in all directions thanks to the tenacity of the Engineer Sanders. There, an unknown coast city, bigger and brighter than Arx, was born as a symbol of Guardian resistance: The Guardian city of Stormdales.

Surrounding this new metropolis, several shrines were erected to remember all the brave Guardians that lost their lives during the conflict. Those monuments were rarely assaulted by the groups of fanatics which still blamed the Guardians and Arhu for the death of their divine parents.

DeSelby was promoted as main chief of Guardian inner affairs, a position that pleased High Paladin Hardwin. To have a Paladin as the watcher of the corruption inside the rows of the Guardians made them recover an ancient role devalued time ago when the Magisters' debauchery was overwhelming their Order. She was now the moral compass of the Guardians, the judge of corruption, and in combination with the Paladins, the executioner of evil. Nobody complained about her new position, she had earned a long time ago a spotless reputation of having a unique good judgement and lacking thirst for power. There was no better combination for a keeper of justice.

Lysanthir returned with Saheila to the healed zone of Bane Lands, helping in the reconstruction of the new Elven city. Of course, Lysanthir came back to Stormdales after several months. He was always more comfortable among humans. He would prefer to remain as an Elven Guardian, an embodiment of the connection between both races while enjoying the quick and random life of humans. It was better than living the rest of his life in the static ways of the elves. And to be honest, he wanted to be around Ifan, deciding to spend the rest of Ifan’s life by his side as his fellow Guardian.

With his skin condition apparently healed, Tarquin did not remain in Stormdales city despite the construction of an Academy. He was, according to his own words, _ ‘too sick of healing everyone for so long’ _, so he would not stay and risk to get stuck in that role again at the first eventuality that could happen. Instead, he preferred to explore darker places such as the demonic universe. To do it in the safest way, he convinced Jahan to accompany him and set sail together to explore far away East of Rivellon, where rumours of new opened demonic portals had been spread since the end of the war. Although the ancient wizard was quite talkative for his taste, Tarquin could not complain to travel by his side, no better company for learning about demons than the greatest demonologist of Rivellon.

Malady disappeared without leaving clues. Some claimed that she had been prey of the many demon allies to whom she had asked favours, others stated that she had departed to hunt down her own father and take her well-deserving revenge. Meanwhile, a new powerful ancient Godwoken called Loda (*) joined Saheila’s new city. Her resemblance to Malady was astounding, and her age, which allowed her to keep the memory of Rivellon far beyond the 32000 AR, made her a unique living elf. Talking to Saheila, Loda explained that she had been a victim of a demon ages ago, who forced her to have his malformed child. Giving birth to that creature had purged her Source completely, leaving her stuck into a deep slumber; the most ancient version of a Silent Monk. Somehow, she survived the passage of time and awoke in a small garden-like dimension, with green grass, colourful flowers, and thousands of Source butterflies which, she assumed, were what sustained her life for ages. The dimension, despite existing in a demonic plane, had a gentle and protective nature. Nobody could assure who had crafted such a place, and why now Loda had awakened, but everyone highly suspected that Malady had something to do with it. In any case, Loda turned into an invaluable asset in Saheila’s effort to recover a broad amount of Elven wisdom lost through millennia.

Sebille and Lohse resumed their nomad life, travelling around Rivellon and spreading Lohse's epic songs and hopes in destroyed lands that, slowly, were recovering. In a few months, the epic tales of the brave Guardians, composed by Lohse, could be listened in each tavern of the world.

Fane and Gratiana returned to the Dragon's Spine and maintained the Sanctuary of the Undead, giving shelter to the few ones that got stuck in this side of the Veil. It was said that Fane could not live too much time in that dull icy city, and left the place to explore Rivellon again, going this time beyond the borders of the map. He wanted to publish several books of _ accurate _knowledge about Rivellon and destroy Cranley Huwbert's (*) fame. Only time would say if he accomplished it.

Gareth recovered the Guardian's Keep in Stormdales and remained on his duties as High General of the Guardians, leading the brave survivors and probing that this new Order was better and more transparent than the old Magister one. He also began to develop a council system that could allow the Guardians to keep as transparent as it had been, working hard in avoiding to repeat the mistakes that Magisters did. 

Paulina Kemm never returned to the East of Rivellon and some rumours claimed she had left the continent to be part of the High Spheres of the Cyseal’s court. 

Ifan, known now as _ The Hound of Stormdales, _ finally could polish his Guardian training book, which turned into basic material for any recruit who wanted to join the Order. However, the difference between Gareth’s viewpoints and his were insurmountable and ended up in extra chapters despite long discussions to avoid it.

Sandor and Ifan remained in Stormdales city. They became its Mestre and Commander, respectively. Nobody objected to their roles. Ifan had always been the beloved commander, famous for his last-standing act in defence of Arx, while Sandor, despite the _ Deadthfog _incident—a fault that never leaked into the common population—was mainly respected by his fight against the Void dragon. Their reputation and past acts spoke by themselves. They were more than fit to remain in their old positions.

Despite his deep desires to return to a nomad life of adventure, Ifan had accepted a long time ago to use his remaining days as a Guardian; the only way he found to pay for his past sins and amend some mistakes. It was the best penance he could ask for: spending his life with his own pack by Sandor’s side and his fellows Guardians; it was not bad in the slightest.

Sandor’s body healed much better without Source. He recovered his lost weight, and despite his yellowish eyes—the most notorious scar left by his previous Gheist nature—his hair turned brown once again. Everyone thought it was a miracle; another of the many good omens that seemed to rain all over Rivellon after the war. Only Ifan knew it was a new tinge provided by Infirma. But none of them wanted to break the illusion of a good omen, of a miracle recovery. They needed many of them to keep the population’s morale after so much loss and despair.

Accompanied by Infirma and Arhu, Sandor installed a new Academy and clinic in Stormdales city. Although he was not a Sourcerer anymore, his knowledge was enough to provide good healing treatments and advice to those suffering from pain and illnesses. He also began to teach the arts of healing to those who kept their Source, while learning to trust in the natural recovery of living bodies.

After a year, Ifan and Sandor married again. They exchanged their rings in a humble celebration gathering friends and fellow Guardians; without the pressure of political forces, they did not need to hide their relationship anymore. With the event, Sandor would have some wonderful memories replacing the ones lost. For once, Ifan could kiss Sandor openly, in the middle of a peaceful city without a war on their shoulders or an agst fear of losing their lives.

The future would never be free of troubles and conflicts; Rivellon was a complicated place for that, but for now, life was going to be only about hard work and jokes of ichor and tentacles, at least, for a while.

* * *

* * *

**Final Comments**

> I know. Complains about the crappy powerpoint slide ending of the game and ends up writing the same; such hypocrisy. XD
> 
> Originally, I had drafted a whole subplot focussed on Sebille and Lohse and their travel around Rivellon. When Sebille and Slane went to check stuff in the North, and they thought that the advance of the Lizards were just their imperialist policy, I had planned a lot of more extra chapters focused on their research there (and tons of Lizard lore). Same as the massive demonic possession that happened when Ifan travelled around Rivellon to locate the mirrors. In that event, Jahan and Lohse were going to be key. But the draft was showing a monstrous length (imagine how this fic would have ended if I added those extra 10 chapters). I knew this fic was going to be long, but I did not want it to be _ so _long. That’s why the fic is mostly focused on Ifan alone [he has a lot of chapters for himself]. Now, by the end of the story, I regret that decision. It would have been good to have more Sebille in this story. And more Ancient Empire stuff and Lizards. I apologise for that.

> **That ending sucks.**
> 
> I know. I suck at endings. Always. My fics tend to end poorly. I think I hate finishing a story, because I know I will not work on it anymore, so the end is always crappy bittersweet. But for this fic I did it on purpose, since I was kind of tempted to leave it a bit open for a third part, when I thought the game Fallen Heroes was going to be a kind of continuation of DOS2. That was the main reason why I left Damian away from this story and left the Children of the Faith as a solid foreshadowing. I was planning to make them the main enemies in the third part. Quite late Larian confirmed Fallen Heroes as a weird prequel of DOS2. _ Weird _ because it is not (like everything with Larian) a continuation of any of their games, just a _ weird _spin-off with all the companions of DOS2working for Malady and Lucian. So… chances for that third part to come out are close to zero. But my draft was already planned in this way when they informed this, so I stuck to it despite the news. I just wanted to make clear that those apparent lose-ends in this fic were on purpose, but probably will not end in a new part of this story. 
> 
> Also, I should have called this series “About Ichor and Tentacles”.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this monster series. I hope you enjoyed it. It took me two years to write its draft version, edit it, and publish it, so it has a lot of work and love despite the obvious mistakes that any english native speaker may find. 
> 
> As always, no matter how old the fic is, any feedback will be appreciated. You can always check my profile to find means for contacting me.

* * *

* * *

**NOTES**

(*) Notes about the named characters, or details that will be commented on at the end of the chapter. This information and more can also be found in the second chapter of the Map of Rivellon and [ Series Notes ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138285/chapters/47530477).

  
  


**Loda** [Divinity: Original Sin II, canon]: Malady's mother.

**Cranley Huwbert ** [ [ Divinity: Original Sin II ](https://guides4gamers.com/divinity-original-sin-2/poi/npcs-arx/#3850)]: Scholar. Author of the Rivellon Encyclopedia tomes that you can read along the game. He can be found in his house in Arx. 

**Forbidden City** [Divinity: Original Sin II]: Empire where the Lizards reside. Its existence is canonical but the concept of being at the West of Rivellon is purely headcanon. However, it is said along the game that it is a remote place. 

  
  
  


* * *

_ **Sandor’s note in Chapter 31:** _

_ \------- _

> _Tu nombre es Sandor. Eres quien escribió esto. _
> 
> _ Para mi supervivencia y preservar mi espíritu, he tomado toda mi memoria y mi alma y las he depositado en el collar que tienes en tus manos. Dáselo al hombre de bonitos ojos verdes frente a ti, pero no le digas nada al respecto. Él es sumamente importante para ti, como tú lo eres para él. Por eso estás leyendo esto. Por eso en tu memoria sólo tienes la información de un plan aislado, el resto de tu pasado es puro vacío, imposible de alcanzar. Estoy salvando lo que se puede salvar. _
> 
> _ Tu única función es mantener el poder de la Source en el sistema, y cerrar el Velo cuando te lo indiquen. Toda la vida de este universo depende de ti. _
> 
> _ Destruye esta nota tras leerla en caso de que las cosas no salgan bien y hagas sufrir por demás a ese hombre de ojos verdes. _
> 
> _ Estoy haciendo una gran apuesta aquí, y cuento contigo. _

_ \------- _

_ Translation: _

> _Your name is Sandor. You are the one who wrote this. _
> 
> _ In order to survive and to preserve my spirit, I have taken all my memories and my soul and I have deposited them in the necklace you have in your hands. Give it to the man with the gorgeous green eyes in front of you, but don’t tell him about it. He is extremely important to you, as you are to him. That’s the reason you are reading this. That’s the reason why in your memory you only have the information of an isolated plan; the rest of your past is only emptiness, impossible to reach. I am saving what is possible to save. _
> 
> _ Your only function is to maintain the power of the Source in the system, and close the Veil when they tell you to do so. All life in this universe depends on you. _
> 
> _ Destroy this note after reading it in case things don’t go well so you won’t make that green-eyed man suffer too much. _
> 
> _ I’m making a big bet here, and I’m counting on you. _


End file.
